


Broken

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 77,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2720558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos was lost for words. “I don’t know,” he finally confessed in a small voice. “What I do know is that you’ve triumphed before and will do so again. It will just take time.”</p><p>“I don’t know if I can,” d’Artagnan admitted, head dropping back to lay on his mentor’s shoulder. “Sometimes what’s broken can never be fixed,” he mumbled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who expressed an interest in reading my future stories. I'm close enough to having this one finished, (and received some gentle prodding to hurry up and post - you know who you are!), so I've decided it's safe to share my next story. Shamelessly d'Artagnan-focused, although all of the boys appear throughout. I hope you enjoy.

His breaths came harshly as he sprinted down the street, the carts and vendors he passed a mere blur as he kept his target firmly in sight. Behind him, he could hear the pounding of Athos’ boots, but he knew he was faster. Athos was the master swordsman, his skill and speed with a blade unmatched by any they had encountered; with a blade in his hands, Athos was invincible. Aramis’ keen eyes and steady hands allowed him to hit targets that most men would miss, and after his successful shot he would smile demurely as if to dismiss the elegance of his craft. Porthos’ exuberance for life was matched by the ferocity with which he fought, and his creative selection of weapons meant he was seldom found defenceless. But _he_ was the swiftest, his feet scissoring so quickly that it appeared as though he glided across the ground rather than pushing off against it. His arms pumped powerfully in concert with his legs and he felt as though he might take flight at any moment.

 

An oblivious bystander caused him to swerve to one side to avoid a collision and then he sped up again, hair plastered to his head from the force of the rains that had been plaguing Paris for the past two days. A basket was knocked into his path and he leapt over it without slowing. He was gaining on his prey and put on another burst of speed, before bracing himself against the side of a building as he skidded around a corner, the water making the cobblestones beneath his feet slippery. He stumbled to a halt as he scanned the street ahead of him, the sound of a door slamming shut catching his attention and spurring him into motion again. As the door closed behind him he could hear a voice calling his name but there was no time to stop. Wiping a hand across his face, he scrubbed away some of the water that ran into his eyes and squinted into the gloom that was broken by intermittent torches on the walls. As his eyes adjusted to the poor light, he spied a set of stairs and threw himself downwards, exiting into a tunnel. Ahead, he could just make out the vague shape of the man he was chasing, spurring him into a run again.

 

He could hear someone thundering behind him, the sound of running feet amplified in the enclosed space. Pushing himself hard he could see that he was once again closing the gap between himself and the man they sought until suddenly he was upon him. The man had abruptly stopped and turned to face his pursuer, brandishing a sword in one hand, apparently having decided to try to fight his way out instead of continuing to run. Happy to oblige, he drew his blade and fell into the familiar pose as he waited for the other man to attack. Before either man could make a move toward the other, a rumbling sound caught their attention and both men looked at the dust and small stones that were beginning to pepper their heads.

 

Lifting a hand to protect his head, he squinted upwards to try and figure out what was happening, missing the other man turning and running away again while he was struck from behind as a body collided with his. As his head struck the wall of the tunnel and his vision dimmed, he heard a voice calling his name, “d’Artagnan!” 

* * *

It was a slow return to wakefulness, punctuated by confusion and pain as he moved from one state of awareness to the next. First came the feeling of dirt in his mouth and the deep breath he tried to take caused him to choke and cough at the dust that hung in the air around him. Next came the feeling of moisture, which came in the form of an annoying drip that seemed to repeat after many long seconds, before trailing across his cheek to pool at the base of his neck, causing him to shiver. The shiver pulled him closer to awareness as the movement of his body awoke a pain in his side that, once realized, throbbed sharply with each beat of his heart. The pain was good and it sent a surge of adrenaline racing through his veins, reawakening his heavy limbs and clearing the fog from his mind. Clenching a hand into a fist, he forced open his eyes, blinking multiple times to clear his vision before realizing he lay in near darkness. A sound broke through the black that surrounded him and he listened intently, waiting for it to be repeated and, after several seconds, it was.

 

“d’Artagnan,” a breathless voice called. The Gascon forced himself to roll away from the pain in his side and tried to identify the source of the sound. Propped on an elbow, he tried to quiet his breathing until he heard his name again. This time he was able to figure out the direction the voice came from and, with a grunt, he pushed himself upright, struggling to his feet. As he straightened, his side protested and he brought a hand to the source of the pain, shocked when it brushed against something foreign and pointed, causing the agony to spike enough that he dropped to his knees. Bent over, holding himself up with one hand on the ground, the young man panted against the fiery pain that threatened to consume him. When he’d managed to clear the black spots from his vision, he sat back on his heels and looked down at the hand that still hovered over the source of his pain. Lifting his hand, he squinted through the gloom to see it covered in something dark and wet. He looked down at his side, forcing his eyes to focus and spotted the source – he’d been impaled by a piece of wood and the end stuck horrifically from his side. The discovery caused d’Artagnan to pant, nauseous at the sight. He swallowed thickly, feeling the bile beginning to rise in his throat, and managed to turn his head to one side before falling forward and expelling the contents of his stomach. Each contraction of his belly pulled at the wound and he fell sideways when the sickness finally abated. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but was roused by the persistent voice that was again calling his name. Gathering his strength he pushed himself up, deciding to check on the voice before doing anything further with his injury.

 

This time he made it to his knees and chose to crawl, the trembling in his limbs warning that standing was not currently an option. Several feet away he could make out another shape and his mind finally provided the information he’d been missing earlier – Athos! Scattered memories returned to him as he recalled the events from earlier. The chase through the downpour, the sudden quiet once they’d entered the tunnels, and Athos’ steady presence behind him as they ran. There had been a rumbling and their man had gotten away, but he could remember Athos’ voice calling his name before the darkness had descended.

 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan croaked out, his throat still coated with dust. Coughing, he attempted to clear it and tried again, “What happened?”

 

Athos watched the young man’s movements from his spot on the ground, recognizing the boy’s addled state and wondering if he’d hit his head. “It would seem that the tunnels have given way under the recent rains,” Athos replied.

 

The Gascon frowned at the weakness of the other man’s voice, moving closer so that he could properly examine his friend. His was not pleased at what he saw, Athos’ face sweaty and pale even in the dimness and creased with lines of pain. “Where are you hurt?” he asked.

 

“I seem to be pinned by some of the rubble,” Athos explained as he lifted his head slightly to look at his lower body.

 

“Is that all?” the young man pressed, too familiar with his mentor’s propensity to downplay his injuries.

 

Athos offered a partial shrug, “My leg may be broken.”

 

The information drew a gasp from the boy and he scrubbed a hand across his face as he considered how best to help his friend. “Alright, I’ll dig you out and get you out of here so we can have that leg seen to.”

 

“I'm afraid it may not be quite that easy,” Athos corrected him. “You were unconscious for quite a while so I've had an opportunity to consider our situation. I believe you’ll find that both ends of the tunnel are blocked and we were fortunate enough to be caught in a relatively stable section in the middle.”

 

d’Artagnan’s head swivelled first in one direction and then other, confirming the accuracy of his friend’s words, and from where he sat it seemed that Athos was correct. “Alright,” the young man bit his lip as he thought about his next steps.

 

A soft voice interrupted his thoughts as Athos brought his attention back, “d’Artagnan, how badly are you injured?”

 

The young man’s head snapped up at the question and he hesitated for a moment about how much information he should share, but remembering Aramis’ advice about always being honest about one’s capabilities, lest a hidden injury put a brother in harm’s way, he decided to be honest. “I seem to have been stabbed by a…” he motioned to his side as he searched for the right word, “a piece of wood or something.” Athos’ eyes widened at the Gascon’s words, his concern for his protégé increasing tenfold.

 

“How bad is it?” Athos asked.

 

“Not sure,” d’Artagnan admitted. “When I tried to have a look at it earlier, I ended up getting sick.” He swallowed with difficulty, wishing for some water to wash away the lingering taste of sickness in his mouth. “I thought I’d try to pull it out later.”

 

“No,” Athos exclaimed, “it’s best to leave it. You could bleed to death if you pull it out.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and Athos was certain that the boy had just paled further at his words. “I should try to free you,” he said, starting to push himself to his feet.

 

“Go check the ways out of here first to see they are truly blocked. If you are to expend your energy digging, it would be best directed towards opening one end of the tunnel rather than freeing me.”

 

d’Artagnan offered another shaky nod and managed to regain his feet, standing badly hunched in deference to his injured side before he shuffled away to examine their possible exits. He moved slowly along one wall of the tunnel, keeping a hand on the side to brace himself as the ground shifted and swayed beneath his feet. He gave his head a shake in an effort to clear it, but it had the opposite effect and nearly brought him to his knees as a fresh wave of dizziness assaulted him. When he finally reached one of the blocked ends he pushed at the rubble before him, a few larger pieces forcing him to take a step back as they tumbled down. The rest of the pile remained intact and d’Artagnan could see no gaps or weak portions that might indicate a way through. Grunting, he made his way back in the opposite direction, catching Athos’ eye and offering a quick head shake as he passed to let the man know he’d been correct about the blockage. A few feet past where Athos lay trapped, the young man squinted upwards, seeing a section that was lighter than the rest of their space and he held out a hand, noting that water was dripping from the ceiling in the same location. The other end of the tunnel was a twin to the first side he’d examined and, with a huff of frustration, he made his way back to Athos, dropping to his knees beside the man. He panted for a few moments to try and catch his breath before he lifted his head, “You were right, we’re completely cut off.”

 

Athos nodded, not having expected anything different. “There’s a section a few feet away,” the Gascon motioned with his head, “that’s letting some light in. It may be possible for us to climb out of here and back up to the streets above.”

 

Athos knew that he would not be climbing anywhere anytime soon, and doubted the young man was in any better condition to do so, but he kept quiet. d’Artagnan pulled himself wearily to his feet so he could start moving some of the debris away from Athos’ body. “Why don’t you rest for a bit first?” Athos suggested.

 

The Gascon shook his head, “No, I need to do this now. I’m not sure how badly I’m bleeding and I may not have the strength to do this later.” Athos frowned at the honesty of the boy’s words and lay back, allowing the young man to begin shifting some of the rubble that trapped him.

 

It was slow, painstaking work and each boulder, rotten piece of timber and pile of refuse he shifted caused his side to flare, bringing tears to his eyes. Athos watched despairingly from his spot on the ground, seeing the hitches in the Gascon’s movements when he moved an especially heavy piece of debris and hearing the half-voiced gasps and whimpers of pain that he couldn’t contain. Athos hated the fact that he’d placed d’Artagnan in the position of having to dig him out, especially while the young man was injured, and he resolved to have a look at the injury as soon as the boy allowed it. A particularly loud gasp had Athos looking up sharply and he saw the young man sway, eyes closed, before he folded nearly in half and dropped clumsily to his knees. Athos could hear the boy’s wheezing breaths and wished he would lift his head so he could get a better sense of how he was doing.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you alright?” Athos asked, concern coloring his words.

 

The Gascon offered a short nod but remained bent over, his damp hair falling forward to obscure his face. After nearly a minute he raised his head to assure his mentor, “S’fine,” he said breathlessly. “That stone was heavier than it looked and it caught me off guard.” Athos nodded although he didn’t believe the young man’s claims of being fine. “Can you move at all?” the Gascon asked, wanting to gauge whether his efforts had improved his friend’s condition. Athos was still covered from the waist down and had little feeling other than intermittent pangs of pain that shot up from his supposedly broken leg. He tried to move now to see how much latitude, if any, he had and managed to shift one leg slightly while the other was held firmly in place. He tried pulling himself out instead, pushing against some of the debris that lay at his waist, but that only jolted his injured leg and left him throwing his head back on the ground, gasping in pain.

 

The boy’s voice finally cut through the haze of agony and Athos dredged up the strength to respond, “I’m alright.” He lifted a shaky hand and wiped it across his brow, unknowingly causing the dirt that stuck there to create a ghoulish streak across his forehead.

 

Placing a hand on his mentor’s shoulder, d’Artagnan countered, “That was not alright.” The young man shook his head despondently, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to move everything off of you. There are some larger pieces and…” He trailed off, not wanting to voice his guilt and despair at his failing strength that was preventing him from freeing his friend.

 

Athos’ hand rose to join d’Artagnan’s at his shoulder as he tried to reassure the boy, “It’s alright, d’Artagnan, I know you’ve done your best. Why don’t you rest for a bit and let me have a look at your side?”

 

The Gascon seemed to blanch at the thought but nodded, shifting to sit next to the older man so that his injured side was closest to his friend, then painfully unlacing his doublet to allow better access. Athos lifted himself up on an elbow and scrutinized the shaft of wood that jutted from the boy’s torso. “May I?” he asked, reaching forward to pull the young man’s doublet aside. d’Artagnan gave another short nod, closing his eyes and bracing himself against the discomfort that would likely accompany his friend’s actions. Athos kept an eye on the young man’s face as he slowly slid a hand under the man’s doublet, pausing at a hitched intake of air and resuming again when the Gascon exhaled slowly. Having reached the point of entry, Athos slowly pulled the doublet away from d’Artagnan’s body, managing to slide it along the length of the wood until it was free. d’Artagnan’s face was now covered in a sheen of sweat but he gave another nod of encouragement for Athos to continue so the older man reached for the hem of his shirt, stopping when he realized there was an easier way.

 

Reaching for d’Artagnan’s hand, he took it and guided it to the bottom of the shirt, “Can you rip it upwards from here?” The Gascon did as he was asked, biting his lip as the fabric jarred the debris in his side, then moving his hands away to allow Athos to continue his exam. Without the doublet and shirt covering the extent of the injury, it looked even more horrific, the skin around the wood extremely red and oddly stretched out of shape while it sluggishly oozed blood. Athos was uncertain about whether anything vital would have been damaged, since it really depended on the length of wood that was now embedded within the young man’s body. “Brace yourself, d’Artagnan,” Athos ordered as he placed a hand on the wood, testing how firmly it sat in the young man’s side. For better or for worse, it seemed that it would take a good deal of effort to remove the object from the young man’s body and Athos removed his hand as quickly as he could at the young man’s whimper of pain.

 

As soon as his hand was gone, d’Artagnan curled into himself as much as his injury would allow, breathing harshly in an effort to contain his agony. “I’m truly sorry for that, d’Artagnan” Athos apologized, placing a hand at the boy’s neck to comfort him. They stayed that way for a minute or two, the Gascon finally looking up, his eyes glazed with pain.

 

“Guess I’ll be holding onto that a little longer,” d’Artagnan attempted to joke, but the effect fell short because of the grimace on his face.

 

“It would seem so,” Athos allowed.

 

“What do we do now?” d’Artagnan asked, looking to his mentor for guidance.

 

“Now, we wait. I’m certain that Porthos and Aramis will have noticed our absence and will be looking for us. Add to that the fact that the tunnel collapsing is hardly a quiet occurrence and I’m confident that we won’t be alone for long.” Athos put as much confidence into his words as he could muster, but truthfully he was more troubled by their situation than he let on. It could take rescuers several days to first locate and then dig them out and, based on their current conditions, neither of them was likely to survive more than a couple days; time was of the essence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It may be a while,” Porthos admitted. “We have to work carefully so we don’t bring the rest of the place down on your heads.” The Gascon nodded, having already guessed that their rescue would not be swift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, commented and left kudos on the first chapter - I was truly overwhelmed by the response. Hope you enjoy this next installment.

When d’Artagnan and Athos had given chase, Aramis had huffed in annoyance before he grudgingly threw himself into a run and followed Porthos who had already given pursuit. Running was one of Aramis’ least favorite things to do, and running through the deluge that had water running into the collar of his doublet and soaking the shirt underneath just made the experience that much worse. In his mind, Musketeers were not made for running. Chasing bandits on horseback, using all manner of weapons to heroically save the day, possibly resulting in the appreciative affections of the fairer sex - those were all things that fell under the purview of the Musketeers, but those shouldn’t involve running.

 

Gasping for another lungful of air, Aramis lifted his face to the rain to confirm he hadn’t lost Porthos and then put his head back down as he ran. Porthos, he knew, didn’t mind running, having done more than his fair share while growing up in the Court of Miracles. Aramis scowled at the look of intense joy that Porthos got on his face when he ran, much preferring to use his own two feet than to be on the back of a four-footed beast. Porthos took a sharp left and Aramis slipped around the corner to follow him, realizing that they now headed away from their two friends and that Porthos must be planning to cut the man off by using his intimate knowledge of Paris’ back alleys and laneways.

 

They ran for several more minutes, taking lefts and rights that to Aramis seemed completely random, but Porthos never faltered. When the large man finally slowed to a stop, Aramis stumbled beside him, planting a hand on a building to his right and looking inquiringly at his friend. Porthos was looking around, confusion written on his face, “They should be here.”

 

Aramis searched the area around them, panting for air, offering a shrug, “Perhaps we beat them here?”

 

“No,” Porthos shook his head, “they had a shorter route. They should be here,” Porthos repeated. As Aramis was considering his response, they felt the ground at their feet tremble and the two men shared a surprised look. Porthos was the first to recover, again drawing on his knowledge of the Parisian streets and he pushed Aramis back against the building beside them, pressing his body against the other man’s. The trembling increased and climaxed with a deafening roar, and when Porthos released Aramis the two men looked to where the street had been, seeing a gaping hole in its place.

 

“Tunnels,” Porthos explained at Aramis’ disbelieving look, “they run all over the place. Sometimes they get unstable and then this happens.”

 

“Huh.” It was perhaps not the most intelligent comment, but Aramis was still astonished at the sight, having never seen anything like it.

 

“Come on,” Porthos tugged at his friend’s arm, “we’d best get back to the garrison. Athos and d’Artagnan will likely be back there, with or without our man.” Aramis nodded, following his friend, giving the hole a wide berth as they made their way back.

* * *

Both men were surprised to find Athos and d’Artagnan absent from the garrison, but reasoned that it could be taking the two more time to return, especially if they had to detour around some of the collapsed tunnels. Apparently the cave-in they’d seen was one of three such incidents, one having given way just two streets over from their location, while another was further yet. The two Musketeers stayed close to the courtyard in anticipation of their friends’ return, nursing cups of wine as they sheltered under an overhang in an effort to stay dry. Both would have been far happier inside, close to a roaring fire, but neither man could relax until the foursome were reunited. A half hour turned into one and then slowly crawled toward two, by which time both men had given up any pretense of calmness and were arguing about whether they should report to Treville before heading out to search for their missing comrades. Treville solved their dilemma by appearing outside his office door, having kept an eye on the two since they’d returned. With a wave of his hand he indicated his desire to see them and they both ran into the rain and up the stairs to the Captain’s office, trying to avoid the worst of the downpour.

 

When they presented themselves to the Captain, he wasted no time with pleasantries, already having deduced that something was wrong. “Well?”

 

Porthos shrugged uncomfortably and looked at his silver-tongued friend, hoping the other man would explain, “We’re not sure. We had our man in sight and were chasing him but then we split up at the Rue St. Claire. Porthos,” Aramis glanced at his friend, “knew a shortcut so we skirted around in order to cut them off.”

 

Porthos took up the tale next, “They should have beaten us there, but there weren’t no sign of ‘em. Maybe they were slowed down by one of the tunnels that collapsed?” he suggested.

 

The Captain looked up sharply at the large man’s comment, “What route exactly did Athos and d’Artagnan take?”

 

“Not sure,” Porthos answered, “but they were heading toward the Seine.”

 

Treville stood and pulled a rolled piece of parchment from his credenza, unrolling it atop his desk. He pointed to their location as well as two others, “There were three collapses; here, here, and here.”

 

Aramis exchanged glances with Porthos, “Was anyone hurt at any of these sites?”

 

Treville shook his head, “No, the rains seemed to have pushed most people indoors and the streets have been emptier than usual.”

 

“Then we should go back and investigate and see if we can find any indication of where they might have gone,” Aramis declared.

 

Porthos was already nodding his agreement, “Aye, try to follow the path they took and see if anyone knows anything.”

 

Treville agreed, “Report back as soon as you know anything and let me know if you need more men for the search.”

 

The two turned and left the Captain’s office, eager to begin the hunt for their friends. They quickly retraced their path to the Rue St. Claire where they had parted ways, but this time moved forward in the direction they’d last seen their friends travelling in. Along the way, they saw the occasional signs that indicated they were on the right track, including an outraged vendor who was upset at the Musketeers’ crazy race through the streets and Athos’ cloak, which he’d obviously discarded so it didn’t hamper him during the chase, and which Aramis picked up in order to return it to his friend. They had now stopped again, looking for clues of their friend’s whereabouts when they were hailed by a wine-sodden voice. Turning, Porthos spotted the man who’d spoken, sitting at the base of a house, barely protected from the drizzle that persisted. Sending Aramis a look to let him know where he was going, Porthos made his way over to the man who squinted up at him through the rain.

 

“You a Musketeer?” he slurred.

 

“Aye, you seen any other Musketeers around earlier?” Porthos asked.

 

The man nodded, “You tryin’ to find ‘em?” Porthos gave a nod in reply. “What’s it worth to ya?”

 

Porthos raised an eyebrow in warning, letting the man know that he was not to be trifled with. “Depends on the quality of your information,” he drawled.

 

The man motioned a hand toward a doorway across the street, “Saw them chase someone in there. A young one with long dark hair and he was followed by an older man wearing a hat.”

 

Porthos examined the door the man referred to, already dreading the answer, but needing to confirm his suspicions, “Do you know where that goes?”

 

“Sure, everyone knows; that goes down into the tunnels. Hope your friends didn’t get caught in there when they collapsed today.” Porthos’ eyes widened, certain in the knowledge that his missing friends had been caught in the cave-in. Digging a few coins from his purse, he tossed them to the man before hurriedly crossing the street to share what he’d learned.

 

Aramis listened intently to Porthos’ theory and put a hand on his friend’s arm when he tried to move toward the door. “We should inform Treville.”

 

Porthos pulled his arm away, “Let’s have a quick look first; that way we’ll have more information for the Captain.” Aramis hesitated, understanding that Porthos’ objective wasn’t information collection but the need to check for their friends. With a short nod he agreed and they moved through the door and into the dim entryway. Waiting for a few moments for their eyes to adjust, Porthos snagged a torch from the wall as he led the way down the stairs, “If this is one of the affected tunnels, the force of the cave-in probably put out the other torches that were lit.”

 

The two men moved quickly, soon coming upon signs of the collapse, having to navigate larger piles of rubble as they went. They stopped when they found their path completely blocked and Aramis looked at the obstructed way ahead of them in horror, now joining Porthos in his feelings of dread at the thought that their brothers might be trapped on the other side. Porthos didn’t waste any time but moved forward to test the sturdiness of the pile in front of them. “It’ll take more hands than ours to shift this aside,” he declared.

 

Aramis sighed and asked, “Do you know where another entrance will take us to the other side?” Porthos nodded and again led the way, returning to the soggy streets above ground and leading them several roads over to another innocuous door. It took only a few minutes to discover that the tunnel was similarly blocked and Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration. “Can you follow the path of the tunnels above ground?” he asked. At Porthos’ inclined head, he continued. “Good, follow it as best you can and see if there’s another way we can get down there. I’ll report our findings to Treville and gather men and supplies so we can begin digging. I’ll meet you back at the first entrance in an hour.”

 

The two exited the tunnel and parted ways, Aramis heading for the garrison while Porthos followed the path through the Parisian streets, looking for any sign of their friends and for any access points to the passageway beneath his feet.

* * *

d’Artagnan had lost all concept of time, dozing intermittently before being woken by Athos’ concerned calls or when the intensity of his throbbing side grew too severe for him to ignore, even in sleep. It had been early morning when they had entered the tunnels and Athos believed that he had been unconscious for quite a while before he’d awoken to find them trapped. Based on the limited amount of light that was let in through the partial break above them, the young man estimated that it was around late afternoon.

 

He and Athos had talked for a while, but Athos was not known for his conversational skills at the best of times and this was definitely far from being the best of times. d’Artagnan had tried to carry the conversation for a while but he was tired from the pain of his side and his head still felt foggy, leading him to think he might have suffered a concussion. Athos had done his best to wake him when he fell asleep, but the older man was having difficulties of his own as he lay pinned beneath the rubble, jolted by the occasional stabs of pain that let him know that if his broken leg wasn’t freed soon, he’d be at risk of losing the limb. During his waking periods the Gascon had stubbornly continued shifting the rocks and other debris that covered his mentor, focusing on the right side in order to uncover the damaged leg.

 

d’Artagnan could feel himself growing weaker as the hours wore on and, despite the fact that Athos had done his best to bandage his injury, he could feel the wetness as his side continued to seep. Added to his blood loss was the fact that he’d been sick twice more, bringing up nothing but bile with the unproductive cramping of his stomach. The only consolation was that they’d had some water, d’Artagnan putting his mouth directly under the run off that came through the roof above them, and soaking a handkerchief so that he could dribble the liquid into Athos’ mouth. The Gascon shifted another large stone, stumbling off balance as it shifted, only to find his mentor gasping in pain. He dropped to the man’s side immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Athos, what is it?”

 

Athos panted for several more inhalations before he opened his eyes, “When you shifted that rock,” he started, pausing for another breath, “it jarred my leg. You must be close.”

 

The statement gave the young man renewed energy and he careened back to his feet to examine the pile. It took him several seconds to spot, but he could finally see the outline of Athos’ leg, covered by a splintered beam and surrounded by smaller dirt and rocks. “I think I can get to it now,” he said, looking back at the older man who simply nodded. d’Artagnan moved slowly and carefully now, not wanting to cause any additional damage but recognizing that he needed to check on the broken limb and, at the very least, ensure there was good blood flow beyond the break. “Athos,” he said after clearing the last of the dirt, but leaving the broken timbre alone, “I think I can reach it. I’m going to try to remove your boot to check the pulse in your foot.” Another nod was the only reply and the Gascon manoeuvered himself carefully onto the ground beside Athos’ leg, reaching a hand under the beam to the man’s boot.

 

Athos knew that the process would be painful, especially since the young man could only use one hand, leaving his leg unbraced as his boot was removed. He did his best to breathe through the pain, resolving to not make things any harder than necessary on his protégé and biting his lip to contain his sounds of discomfort. When his foot was finally free, Athos couldn’t help but gasp in relief at the lack of pressure and was grateful when the Gascon waited a minute before doing anything more so he could regain his composure. “I’m going to check your foot now,” d’Artagnan told him. Athos could hear a sigh of relief from the young man as he confirmed that the blood flow to his lower leg had not been compromised and his stomach unclenched slightly at the knowledge that he would not lose his leg.

 

“Athos, can you wiggle your toes?” the young man queried.

 

He took a deep breath as he attempted the task, managing a small movement of his toes that had the Gascon chuckling at in relief. “That’s good, Athos, that’s really good.” He scooted back up to be near his friend’s head as he apologized, “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do.”

 

Athos examined his friend in the waning light, seeing how much the effort had cost him and he reached a hand up to squeeze the young man’s arm, “It’s more than enough knowing that I won’t lose my leg.” d’Artagnan managed a shy grin before ducking his head as he shifted to sit next to the older man. “How are you doing?” Athos asked, again quietly cursing his position and inability to do more for the young man.

 

“I’m fine, Athos, really. You need to stop worrying about me.” d’Artagnan looked around their gloomy space. “I think we’re starting to lose the light,” he commented. Athos had noticed the same but hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the fact that they’d definitely be spending the night below the streets. “What do you think Porthos and Aramis are doing?”

 

“Everything they can to locate us, I’d wager,” Athos assured.

 

“But, how will they find us down here,” the Gascon’s voice wavered and Athos squeezed his arm again.

 

“They do not make a habit of failing their brothers; they’ll figure it out,” Athos declared confidently.

 

The young man’s eyes were beginning to droop again and Athos knew he would soon succumb to his weariness. Patting the ground beside him suggested, “Why don’t you get some rest?” d’Artagnan gave a nod and began to shift himself into position, laying on his uninjured side and facing his friend. His eyes had only just closed when he heard a foreign noise that sounded like voices. When he opened his eyes again and propped himself up on one elbow, it became apparent that Athos had heard something too and now had his head craned toward the damaged section of roofing above them. Pushing himself to his feet, d’Artagnan moved slowly to the lighter area, looking upwards in an attempt to make out the space above their heads.

 

“d’Artagnan! Athos!” the sound was repeated and this time he could clearly make out their names.

 

Grinning, he called back, “Down here! We’re down here, in one of the collapsed tunnels.”

 

There was some movement above that had fresh dirt and rubble falling, and d’Artagnan ducked his head to prevent being blinded by it. Moments later a voice called, even more clearly than before, “d’Artagnan, is that you?”

 

“Yes,” the young man yelled back, “we’re both here.”

 

“Athos is down there with you?” Porthos, d’Artagnan identified, and his grin widened.

 

“Yes, Porthos, he’s here with me but his leg is broken and he’s pinned under some rubble. I’ll need help to free him.”

 

Aramis’ voice returned, “Take heart, we know where you are and have the Captain coming with men and supplies. We’ll have to widen the hole up here to get access to you.”

 

“I know,” the Gascon replied, “both ends of the tunnel have collapsed and we were lucky to be trapped in the middle.” Had he actually said lucky, the young man thought to himself, but yes, it had been luck that they were in the one section that hadn’t failed, burying them both. “How long will it take?”

 

It took several seconds before Aramis responded, “Are you hurt?”

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at his friend’s predictable nature before replying, “Yes, but it’s not too bad. I’m still able to move around but we’ll need a stretcher for Athos.” Had the older man been close enough to call to his other friends, he would have contradicted the Gascon on both parts of his answer, but as it was, he was content to ensure the young man was seen to as soon as they were free. “How long before you can reach us?” d’Artagnan repeated.

 

“It may be a while,” Porthos admitted. “We have to work carefully so we don’t bring the rest of the place down on your heads.” The Gascon nodded, having already guessed that their rescue would not be swift.

 

“Is there anything you need?” Aramis asked. “We may be able to pass a few things down once we’ve widened the hole up here.”

 

d’Artagnan considered their space and the very real possibility that they would be spending the night. “A lantern and some blankets might be nice,” he replied.

 

“We’ll pass them down as soon as we’re able.” Porthos voice disappeared for a moment as he conversed with someone else above. “We’re ready to start diggin’ now so you may want to move back. Yell if things start getting bad down there and we need to stop.”

 

“Alright,” the Gascon agreed as he returned to Athos’ side. “They found us,” he stated unnecessarily, still grinning at the thought.

 

“Of course they did,” Athos demurred. “Would you expect any less from the King’s Musketeers?”

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes again but didn’t protest, having had faith in their brothers and simply relieved that they would soon be released from their underground cave. The young man settled beside his mentor to wait, this time staying sitting up so he could watch for any signs of danger that would signal a need to end the digging above them. He placed a hand on Athos’ shoulder and the older man didn’t comment, recognizing the boy’s need for comfort which was currently as strong as his own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His sole focus now was on the hole in the roof that was gradually allowing light to pass through, its successful completion representing much-needed aid for the brother who lay beside him. “Soon, Athos, they’ll be through soon,” he muttered, grasping his mentor’s wrist with one hand as he stared upwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos so far. I'll apologize in advance for the end of this chapter...you'll know what I mean when you get there. Enjoy!

As they dug, Porthos and Aramis offered frequent progress updates to their friends below, recognizing that the passage of time would be difficult to track when unable to see the sun. Unfortunately, their progress was slow, hampered not only by the fragile state of the tunnel, but by the water that continued to fall, turning every shovelful of dirt into thick, heavy mud which stressed the men’s muscles and oozed back into spots that had previously been cleared. They had no choice but to continue shifting the layers of dirt and mud, which covered the stone of the tunnel underneath. Hours later, they’d managed to widen the crack to allow the passage of two blankets, which had been hurriedly forced through with the aid of a stick that pushed the fabric through the narrow opening. Any form of illumination was sadly out of the question and the two Musketeers chomped in frustration at their inability to provide their friends with an alternative to a night spent in the dark.

 

As the hours wore on Aramis stressed about every hitched breath in d’Artagnan’s replies and the ever-shortening responses they were receiving. He knew well the young man’s penchant for downplaying his injuries and had begun imagining the worst in the absence of any concrete information from the Gascon. “Aramis,” Porthos interrupted his thoughts, “stop thinkin’ so loudly and help me pull this root.” As they’d dug, they discovered all manner of obstacles in their way, including tree roots that had spread across the road as they found purchase and grew towards the skies.

 

Aramis wiped more water from his brow before replacing his hat. It was impossible anymore to tell the rainwater from sweat and all of the men working were damp, inside and out, from their efforts. Porthos had long forsaken his hat and doublet, and worked merely in his shirtsleeves, his scarf still wrapped around his head to keep the worst of the moisture out of his eyes. The two men pulled and pushed at the offending root that blocked their way, Porthos eventually taking the axe to it once more when it refused to budge. It would be dark soon, Aramis noted, and his heart sank with the realization that their brothers would not be joining them tonight.

 

As if the Captain had heard Aramis’ thoughts, he strode over to them, a serious look on his face, “We’ll have to stop soon for the night.” Both Musketeers looked ready to argue and Treville held up a hand to stay their comments. “The lanterns won’t stay lit in this weather and we can’t dig in the dark.”

 

The two friends look devastated at the thought of their injured comrades having to spend the night in the cave-in. “Surely there’s something we do,” Aramis protested.

 

“Aramis,” Treville placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, but included both men in his gaze, “I want to free them just as badly as you but I won’t risk anyone else getting hurt because we can’t see what we’re doing. The best thing is to head back, get dry and try to get some sleep. I promise you, we’ll be back here at first light.”

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look and it was the latter man who answered, “You’re right.” He threw a meaningful look at Aramis, “they’ll be alright for a night. Maybe not happy, but they’ll understand.” Aramis nodded, the despair still clear on his face.

 

Porthos looked back up at the darkening sky, “We’d best get things cleaned up.” Around him, the other Musketeers had already begun repacking the equipment they’d brought with them in preparation for their return to the garrison.

 

“We’ll place a tarp over this area to prevent the rains from undoing our work,” Treville stated. “Best let Athos and d’Artagnan know so they can prepare.”

 

Aramis knelt in the muddy hole they’d excavated, getting as close to the opening as he could. “d’Artagnan,” he called.

 

It took nearly a half minute before he heard an answering voice from below and he frowned at the delay. “There’s no way for us to keep digging overnight; the wind and rain are too intense to keep the lanterns lit.”

 

Next to him, Porthos added, “We’ll be back here at first light and we’ll have you out tomorrow. In the meantime, we have to place a tarp over the hole so it doesn’t catch the rainwater overnight.”

 

“Alright,” a shaky voice answered.

 

“d’Artagnan, how are you both?” Aramis had to ask.

 

“Not really much change. Athos is still trapped and I think he’s in a fair amount of pain. I’ve done what I can but he’s having a hard time staying awake.”

 

“And you?” Aramis pressed.

 

“I’m tired too. Guess it’s a good thing you won’t be making a racket all night so we can get some sleep,” the Gascon replied, trying to lighten the mood.

 

The comment brought a small smile to his friends’ lips, although both men were well aware of the fact that the young man hadn’t actually answered Aramis’ question. “You should head back to Athos now. Once we place the tarp, it’ll get even darker down there,” Porthos instructed.

 

“And make sure to wrap yourselves in those blankets. The night will be cold and I don’t want to find out that you managed to get sick while you were down there,” Aramis added.

 

“Don’t worry, Aramis, we can manage one night,” d’Artagnan replied.

 

Nothing further was said and Porthos gave the young man a couple of minutes before he and two others secured the tarp over their work area. He tried not to think too much how the act reminded him of covering a grave, since he fully intended to fulfill his promise and find a way to free his friends before a second night fell.

 

When they’d finished, Porthos clasped Aramis’ shoulder, “Come on. We need to clean up and get somethin’ to eat. They’ll be here waitin’ for us in the morning.” Aramis gave a short nod, his feet unwilling to move away but recognizing the wisdom of his friend’s words. As they made their way back to the garrison, Aramis prayed that his brothers would be safely returned to them the next day.

* * *

d’Artagnan hadn’t been completely dishonest when he’d said that they were both tired – that part was in fact true. What he hadn’t mentioned was that Athos had grown pale and clammy in the hours since their friends had found them and he was fairly sure the man was slipping into shock from the pain of his injury. The Gascon had done everything he could to make the man comfortable, dribbling small amounts of water into his mouth when he could get Athos to swallow and wrapping his upper body firmly in the two blankets they’d received. His own weariness stemmed from the slow but persistent flow of blood that seeped from his side, and he had started to feel not only tired but cold and lightheaded. Had he had his wits about him, he would have realized his own risk of succumbing to shock and laid next to Athos so they could share their meagre body heat, but he’d long ago stopped thinking rationally. His conversation with Aramis and Porthos had drained the last of his reserves and he shuffled to lay next to his mentor, again positioning himself so that he was on his good side and facing Athos.

 

Some small part of him was grateful that it was now alright to sleep, a desire he hadn’t been able to give into earlier when his friends were continuously providing status updates. He wasn’t even that worried about the complete darkness that had been descending on their space for quite some time, comfortable in the knowledge that they would sleep through most of it and that Athos was right there beside him. With those thoughts at the forefront of his mind, d’Artagnan laid his head down and allowed his eyes to close, letting sleep overtake him.

 

When he opened his eyes again, it took several long seconds to remember what had happened and he reached out a hand to touch Athos’ arm and then his chest, comforted by the steady rise and fall he felt there. He was still incredibly fatigued and he could think of no reason to stay awake so he let his eyes close again. Then he heard it…a soft scrabbling noise down by his feet. In the dark, it was impossible to see anything and d’Artagnan tried to tell himself that it was nothing but perhaps some errant spiders or mice. Bringing his hand up to cover his head, he closed his eyes again to return to sleep, until he felt something at his leg. He started at the touch, jerking his leg abruptly and causing his injury to flare sharply. The resulting agony distracted him for several minutes as he curled in on himself as much as he could, panting through the pain.

 

He reached a trembling hand out to Athos again, this time shaking gently, “Athos, wake up.” There was no response to his words and he tried several more times to wake his friend but without luck. This scared d’Artagnan more than he could describe, but a palm on the man’s chest confirmed that he still breathed, although he was obviously deeply unconscious. Biting his lip in frustration, the Gascon returned to his position and tried to fall back asleep. He’d nearly been successful until he felt something at his side, instinct bringing his hand down in an effort to brush the contact away. He was shocked when his hand connected with something furry and, before he knew it, he’d rolled into a sitting position, one hand shakily protecting the wound in his side. He breaths came in harsh gasps as he strained his eyes and ears for any indication of what he’d felt and, at the familiar scrabbling sound, he kicked a leg out, connecting with something.

 

Pulling his legs up towards him, the Gascon wrapped his arms around his knees, scooting backwards as far as he could so that Athos lay at his back. Although the darkness was impenetrable, his eyes roamed wildly, seeking any signs of whatever it was that he’d felt. Everything was quiet now and d’Artagnan’s trembling slowly subsided as his body gave in to the blood loss and extreme fatigue he was suffering from, pulling his eyelids closed even though the young man wanted desperately to stay awake. His head fell once, twice, then a third time to his chest, staying down the last time as he was overtaken by sleep. His next moment of awareness was that of extreme pain at his side, and he brought a hand down instinctively, eyes snapping open as he connected with something.

 

His hand closed around something large and furry and, with a cry, he flung it away from him as hard as he could, the sound of impact and a loud, shrill squeak following moments later. His foggy mind raced again as he struggled for breath, unknowingly beginning to hyperventilate as he sat trembling in the dark. His fingers scrabbled at his side, trying to figure out what had happened, but succeeding only in jarring the wood that had impaled him and reawakening the pain. His confused mind conjured images of vicious creatures attacking and feasting on his and Athos’ bodies and he began to mumble incoherently with the little air that remained in his lungs. As his muttering continued, the steel band that seemed to have clamped around his chest tightened, panic now having completely taken over. A few more gasping breaths emerged before the young man fell to the side, the stresses on his already overtaxed body overcoming him.

 

He woke several minutes later, his breathing having returned to normal and the fear from earlier still fresh in his mind. Determined to protect his friend from whatever had been captured in the tunnel with them, he pushed himself again to a seated position and rocked slowly to stay awake. He was unaware of the stream of nonsensical words that came from his mouth, the sweat that covered him and pooled at the base of his throat, or the blood that he squeezed from his side to soak his shirt and breeches with every forward motion – his only mission was to protect his friend until daylight returned. Next to him Athos remained oblivious to the drama that had been unfolding, while several feet away, a rat lay senseless after its forceful impact with the tunnel wall.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos wore their weariness like a cloak, neither man having slept well while knowing that their friends remained trapped below the streets. They had silently agreed to remain together throughout the night, Porthos collecting some food for them while Aramis prepared clean water so the two could wash away some of the day’s work from their bodies. After a subdued meal in Aramis’ rooms, they’d settled down to sleep, exhaustion being the only thing that helped pull them into darkness. When Aramis awoke an hour before dawn, Porthos was already awake and sitting at the small table where they’d eaten, playing some type of card game to pass the time. When he saw that Aramis was awake, he pushed the cards together into a pile and wordlessly pulled on his boots, doublet and cloak in preparation for another day in the rain. Aramis did the same before gathering his kit of medical supplies and placing them into a small leather bag, which he slung over one shoulder; he was confident that his friends would have need of his skills before the day was done.

 

Porthos stopped by the kitchen on their way, snagging a small parcel of freshly-baked baguettes that Serge had prepared for them in anticipation of their early start. The small act of kindness warmed Porthos and reminded him again of how liked and respected their two friends were by others at the garrison. They stopped at the cart that held their equipment from the previous day, each taking a shovel and Porthos slinging a large hammer over one shoulder before they exited the gates. The first streaks of dawn were just making their way across the sky, fighting a losing battle with the rain that drizzled, but daylight was approaching none-the-less. It was a given that the two friends would be the first of the Musketeers to arrive, but neither man could slow their steps, needing to hear d’Artagnan’s voice again to know they had survived the night.

 

The two men shared a glance when they saw the amount of water that had pooled on top of the tarp they’d left, and Aramis silently praised their Captain for his foresight in suggesting it. Wordlessly, they removed the stones they’d used to hold down the corners and pulled the tarp away to reveal the hole they’d created. Aramis hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and Porthos nodded to him in encouragement, knowing that they shared the intense desire to hear that their friends were alright. Lowering himself closer to the gap in the tunnel’s roof, Aramis called for their friend. “d’Artagnan, we’re back.”

 

The wait seemed interminable, but was in reality no more than thirty seconds before they heard a weak voice replying. “Aramis?”

 

“Yes, and Porthos is with me as well. We’re going to start digging shortly and get you out of there today,” Aramis said, as he infused as much confidence as he could into his voice. “How are you today?”

 

“Aramis, is it morning?” d’Artagnan’s voice replied.

 

The two friends frowned at the fear that underlie the young man’s words, “Yes, it’s morning. How was your night?” Porthos asked.

 

“Good,” the Gascon mumbled, “that’s very good.”

 

“d’Artagnan, are you well?” Aramis pressed, his concern rising at the confused responses they were receiving.

 

“You’ll get us out of here today, right?” their young friend questioned.

 

“That’s the plan,” Porthos agreed.

 

“Promise?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

“What?” Aramis replied.

 

“Do you promise you’ll get us out of here today?” the Gascon clarified, a hint of panic coloring his voice.

 

“We promise, lad, whatever it takes. You’ll be above ground before the sun sets,” Porthos confirmed.

 

“I’m going to go check on Athos,” the young man responded and they could already hear his voice becoming distant as if he’d turned and begun to walk away.

 

“d’Artagnan?” Aramis tried, but there was nothing further. “We need to hurry,” Aramis stated, already moving away from the hole to drop his bag in preparation to start working. Porthos gave a short nod in reply as he too divested himself of the extra items he carried, finishing by shrugging out of his cloak so it didn’t hinder his movements. As the darkness of night gradually gave way to a lighter shade of gray, Aramis and Porthos attacked their goal with earnest, having made significant progress by the time their brothers from the garrison arrived.

 

Treville made his way forward immediately to check the status of the hole they’d been enlarging and nodded agreeably at the headway that had been made. He cast an appraising eye over Porthos and Aramis and noted their already filthy doublets and breeches, their faces and hair damp with sweat and rain. Motioning with a hand to the Musketeers he’d brought, he interrupted the two men’s efforts, “Why don’t you let some of the others take over for a bit?” He knew that it would be a difficult chore to convince the men to take a break, but was confident that neither man had slept well or likely eaten and would do themselves no good if they collapsed in their efforts to free their friends. “Just a short break to take some water and eat something. I have it on good authority that Serge was up early to make sure you didn’t go hungry.”

 

As they were surrounded by more of their brothers, Aramis and Porthos stepped away from the hole, handing their tools to the other Musketeers so the work could continue. Treville put a hand on each man’s back and moved them off to the side where Porthos had laid his belongings earlier. He reached down and found the wrapped baguettes, handing one to each man and staring pointedly at them until they began to eat. After several bites had been consumed, he asked, “How are they this morning?”

 

Porthos could plainly see the concern on Aramis’ face, his medical knowledge carrying the heavy burden of providing a far clearer picture of their friends’ health than he had let on. “d’Artagnan seemed somewhat confused this morning and he’s definitely anxious to get out of there,” he replied.

 

At Treville’s raised eyebrow, Aramis sighed, dropping the hand holding the baguette as his flagging appetite deserted him completely, “He sounded panicked and I don’t know what’s wrong, but he’s obviously hurt worse than he’s let on.” Aramis held the Captain’s gaze as he declared, “We have to get them out of there today.”

 

The Captain nodded, having guessed that no matter what the situation, the two men would need to freed before the day ended. “We’ll work in shifts. There’s only so much room to work around the hole anyway, and I don’t want to put too much weight on the roof of the tunnel as we remove more of the stones. As soon as we’ve widened the opening enough, you’ll be the first ones down to check on their condition.” The two Musketeers nodded gratefully to their Captain, all three men knowing that once an access point was created, nothing would stop the two from joining their friends.

* * *

True to his word, d’Artagnan had stumbled back to where Athos lay, his body still and seemingly lifeless if not for the paltry rise of his chest as he inhaled. It was still dark in the tunnel and the Gascon could only make out shapes, their details lost to the gloom that surrounded them. Pressing a hand to his mentor’s face, he could feel Athos’ wispy breaths and the man’s damp, cool skin underneath his palm. He had tried to wake Athos several times throughout the night when he felt he could stand watch no longer, but the man hadn’t uttered a sound despite his efforts. d’Artagnan had eventually resigned himself to the fact that his mentor wouldn’t wake until he received proper medical attention, and even his befuddled mind recognized that the man would surely die if they didn’t get out soon.

 

The Gascon licked his dry, cracked lips, longing for water, but his brain had forgotten about the previous day’s water source so both men went without. Similarly, he often found himself picking at the object in his side until a stab of pain reminded him that it was a bad idea to do so, even though he had no idea why. His sole focus now was on the hole in the roof that was gradually allowing light to pass through, its successful completion representing much-needed aid for the brother who lay beside him. “Soon, Athos, they’ll be through soon,” he muttered, grasping his mentor’s wrist with one hand as he stared upwards.

 

He stayed in this position, not daring to move lest the hole that was widening fade away if he looked elsewhere. It was for this reason that he saw the next collapse, hearing the muted shouting from above as men scrambled to get out of the way. “No!” the hoarse cry was torn from his lips as the light in the tunnel was suddenly halved and he threw himself forward, not sure of what he would do, but desperate to somehow prevent the hole from disappearing. His movement shifted the wood in his side and, instead of surging to his feet, he found himself falling forward, fortunately landing partially on his front and his uninjured side. He tilted his head at the roof, watching the dirt float in the air as it was caught by the weak light, his fingers scrabbling at the dirt beneath him, trying to find purchase to lift himself up. But his body was done, weakened by hours of thirst and blood loss and lack of sleep, and no matter how strong his will, his body would no longer obey his commands to rise. “No,” he cried again, a sob of anguish torn from his lips as he watched their only chance of escape vanish.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gathering his supplies again, he was grateful to note that his eyes had adjusted to the gloomy interior and he spotted his objective several feet away – two bundles that lay unmoving on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos and commented on the last chapter and for the wonderful reactions to d'Artagnan's furry friend. For those of you who have been anxiously waiting for our boys to be rescued, please read on and (hopefully) enjoy!

Aramis and Porthos had just finished their shift, passing the responsibility to three others who had rested and had fresh muscles to apply to the effort. As they stood several feet away watching, they saw the first indications that all was not well, followed closely by a warning cry that had the men clambering from the hole. Within seconds the loose dirt at the sides of the hole were pouring downwards and the Musketeers watched helplessly as they lost an hour’s worth of work.

 

Porthos turned away in disgust, moving towards a post with the intention of punching it, but a gentle hand on his bicep stayed the movement and he nodded gratefully to Aramis, knowing that the unyielding wood would have likely broken his hand. Porthos raised his eyes to Aramis’ face and the look of devastation there nearly undid him. The two moved back toward the hole to inspect the damage but Treville’s hand at Aramis’ chest stopped them from taking up their shovels again to clear the space. “Let the others do it.” The Captain’s voice was soft but carried a stern undertone that left no room for argument so Aramis turned on his heel to grab his hat, striding away with Porthos close at his back.

 

Porthos had no idea where they were going but was unsurprised when Aramis moved through the doors of a church; he’d always found solace in religion and Porthos could not think of any time when that comfort was needed more. He watched Aramis remove his hat and walk unsteadily past the rows of pews until he was nearly at the front of the almost-empty church. There, he dropped to his knees, his words tumbling out quickly as he clasped the cross that hung from his neck and prayed for his brothers’ safe return. Porthos watched for several minutes, not wanting to intrude but waiting until his friend lifted his head to look at the altar in front of him. The large man crossed the distance between them swiftly but silently, placing a hand on Aramis’ shoulder as he continued to kneel. From his spot beside Aramis, Porthos could hear his friend’s prayers, the lilting sound of his voice unerring as he pleaded in Spanish for their friends’ lives. When the words stopped, Porthos bent down and lifted his friend to his feet, guiding them both to sit in a nearby pew.

 

“They have to be alright, Porthos,” Aramis whispered brokenly, still clutching the cross at his neck.

 

“They will be,” Porthos declared, a hand on his friend’s thigh.

 

“How can you be so certain?” Aramis wondered.

 

“’Cause I know them and they’re too stubborn to die,” the larger man answered.

 

The reply brought forth an amused huff from Aramis and he clasped Porthos’ arm in return. “Thank you my friend. I would be quite undone without your steady presence.”

 

Porthos simply knocked his shoulder against the other man’s in reply. “Ready to head back?” he asked. At Aramis’ nod the two rose and departed, eager to return to see what progress had been made during their absence. 

* * *

The two men were pleasantly surprised at the work that had been done during their brief sojourn, the dirt from before all but gone and an opening that was nearly as wide as Aramis’ shoulders revealed. For the first time since they’d discovered their friends’ location, Porthos and Aramis had hope that they’d be reunited shortly. Treville could see the anticipation in both Musketeers’ faces and moved to intercept them, blocking the way with a hand at Aramis’ chest. “Soon, but not quite yet.” Noting the look of amazement on the men’s faces at the progress that had been made, he explained, “The men were quite distraught when the hole was nearly refilled and have been quite enthusiastic in their efforts to excavate it. Aramis, why don’t you get your supplies ready and we’ll lower you down first.” Aramis nodded, Porthos visibly chafing at the thought of having three of his brothers below his feet without him, but he knew that his broader shoulders would require additional clearance that they didn’t have yet.

 

Within minutes Aramis had a rope tied around his chest, a lantern in one hand and his bag of medical supplies looped across one shoulder. His fellow Musketeers took great care lowering him down and as his face disappeared from view, he threw Porthos a last look that promised he would take care of their friends until Porthos could join them. As his feet touched the ground, Aramis got his first good look at the space that had trapped his friends for the past day and he let out a short huff of disgust at the dark and damp conditions they’d been forced to endure. Setting his supplies on the ground, he called up to the others to let them know he’d arrived safely, and then turned nimble fingers to the knot as his chest, releasing the rope from around his torso. Gathering his supplies again, he was grateful to note that his eyes had adjusted to the gloomy interior and he spotted his objective several feet away – two bundles that lay unmoving on the ground.

 

Swiftly he made his way to their sides, dropping to his haunches to check first d’Artagnan’s and then Athos’ pulse and breathing, confirming that both were still alive. This most important hurdle overcome, he turned his attention to examining their injuries. Unsure of who to begin with, he finally decided on Athos since d’Artagnan had at least been conscious until a few hours prior. He could tell that the Gascon had done his best to care for his friend and had wrapped the man in both blankets to try and keep him warm. Aramis placed a hand on the older man’s brow, frowning at the cold and damp skin, realizing quickly that his friend was in shock from the extent of his injuries. Running hands along Athos’ head, neck, arms and torso, Aramis verified that no additional injuries existed before turning his attention to the still partially obscured broken leg. With a hand pressing along its length, he confirmed a break of both lower bones and was relieved to find that blood supply to the man’s foot uncompromised. A final look at the man’s lower body proved his belief that they would require Porthos’ strength to free Athos from the rubble that still held him.

 

Moving to kneel next to the Gascon, Aramis rolled the young man gently to his back, gasping when a large patch of blood was revealed at his side. He pulled back the boy’s doublet and shirt and swore viciously at the piece of timbre that jutted grotesquely from the young man’s flank; further inspection exposed the extent of the young man’s blood loss as Aramis eyed the waistband of the boy’s breeches which were nearly sodden. Standing, he strode quickly back to the hole and called to the men above, “Porthos, we’ll need more men down here as quickly as possible to free Athos; and call a surgeon, d’Artagnan has been impaled by a piece of rotting wood.”

 

Porthos’ head snapped up at the information and he eyed the hole in front of them again, gauging his ability to fit. Handing his shovel to one of the others, he stripped his doublet from his shoulders and said, “Hand me the rope.” He tied it firmly around his chest and moved to position himself so that he could be lowered down. “Send down a couple more men as soon as you’re able and make sure the surgeon is ready at the garrison.” He knew that Treville had already sent word to the garrison for more men to join them and he prayed they arrived quickly so they could finally rescue their friends.

 

The Musketeers lowered him down efficiently, Porthos lifting his arms above his head to squeeze through the narrow opening. He untied himself quickly and made his way over to where Aramis was examining their young friend. “How bad?”

 

“Bad enough,” Aramis replied without looking up. “Athos is in shock and that leg needs to be set but we’ll need to free him first before anything more can be done. d’Artagnan,” he nodded at the young man, “has managed to get himself impaled and has been bleeding out for hours. No doubt he’s in shock as well and we’ll need to get the hole in his side stitched up as soon as possible.” Aramis’ practiced hands pressed against various parts of the Gascon’s body, seeking out any other hidden injuries. “It looks like he hit his head at one point as well, but I haven’t found anything else so far.”

 

Porthos gave a curt nod and moved to examine the pile of rubble imprisoning the older man, bending at once to begin shifting it away. Minutes later, two additional men were lowered down to offer their assistance.

 

“Fouquet, help Porthos. Sebastian, I need you to help me move d’Artagnan over so we can hoist him up.” Aramis moved to gather his supplies in preparation to remove the Gascon from the tunnel. “Will you be alright?” he asked Porthos.

 

The larger man gave a quick nod, “Go. We’ll follow as soon as he’s free.”

 

Aramis and Sebastian lifted the Gascon between them, Aramis at his head and Sabastian at his feet. It worried Aramis that throughout his examination and their handling, the young man remained motionless and showed no signs of waking, deepening his concern at the boy’s fragile state. Aramis held d’Artagnan’s upper body while Sebastian wrapped the rope carefully around the young man’s torso, finishing with a tight knot that would ensure the boy’s safety as he was pulled upwards. At Aramis call, the men above began to lift the Gascon and the medic watched his ascent with bated breath, not relaxing until a return shout from the street informed him that the young man had successfully reached the top. Before he could ask for the rope to be thrown back down, the end landed at his feet, and Aramis again thanked Treville for the fine training that the Musketeers underwent. Within moments he was being hauled upwards and caught a final glimpse of Porthos whose face glistened with sweat in the lantern light as he shifted another stone that other men could not have hoped to lift on their own. When he reached the top, Aramis was pleased to find that d’Artagnan had already been placed on top of several blankets that lay in the cart they’d brought, and that the cart itself had been moved under an overhang so the boy was protected from the rain.

 

Clambering up to kneel beside the boy, he took another moment to examine the young man’s side, having had time to complete only a cursory exam before moving him. He winced at what he saw now in the daylight, the wound oozing blood and the skin red and inflamed.

 

“How is he?” Treville asked, having moved to stand next to the cart.

 

Aramis’ face betrayed his thoughts before he uttered a single word, “He needs a surgeon.” His hands fluttered helplessly above the gruesome injury, “I don’t think its hit anything vital, but when the wood is removed, he’ll be at greater risk of bleeding out.” Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he added, “Infection’s already set in.”

 

Treville nodded, “I’ll get one of the men to take you back to garrison; the surgeon should already be waiting.” Athos?”

 

“His leg is broken but it should heal well once it’s set. My biggest concern is shock. We’ll need to get him warm and get some water into him as soon as possible.” Aramis pulled a handful of bandages from his bag and began to pack the area around the wood in an effort to stem the bleeding. As he worked, the Gascon emitted a low groan and tossed his head weakly. Immediately stopping what he was doing, Aramis leaned forward, placing a hand on the young man’s cheek. “d’Artagnan, are you awake?” He heard another moan and watched as d’Artagnan struggled to open his eyes, grateful when the young man managed the task and did his best to focus on the man bending over him. “It’s good to see you awake,” Aramis greeted him. “How are you feeling?”

 

“’Mis?” the Gascon slurred.

 

“Yes, we got you out and we’re going to take you back to the garrison so the surgeon can treat you.”

 

The young man started to nod, stopping abruptly, his eyes opening further, “Athos?”

 

“Still down there but Porthos will have him freed shortly. I’ll make sure your beds are next to each other in the infirmary,” he offered a small smile.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan began to shift, attempting to get some leverage so he could sit upright.

 

Aramis placed his hands on both shoulders, holding him down. “d’Artagnan, be still. Your wound is grave and you’ll do yourself no good by moving around.”

 

The Gascon looked at him wildly, refusing to still, “You don’t understand. Someone needs to keep watch, keep him safe.” His breathing grew rapid as his panic increased and Aramis could see the confusion that clouded the young man’s eyes.

 

“There’s no need for worry. I told you, Porthos is with him.” Deciding to switch tact, he asked, “Don’t you trust Porthos to keep Athos safe?”

 

The question startled the Gascon and he stilled as he considered his friend’s question, “Of course I trust Porthos.” Drawing a shaky breath, he muttered, “Trust all of you.”

 

“Good,” Aramis soothed, “then you know that Porthos will not allow any harm to come to him.”

 

Aramis was pleased when the comment seemed to cut through the young man’s hazy mind and he relaxed back against the floor of the cart. “We’ll wait for him here,” the Gascon declared.

 

“What? No, that’s not what I meant. We can wait for them at the garrison,” Aramis stated, becoming exasperated.

 

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say as the Gascon began to struggle again. “No, have to wait for Athos,” he grunted as his wound was jarred.

 

“Maybe it would easier to just wait?” Treville suggested, watching Aramis helplessly try to hold the young man still.

 

“Fine,” Aramis huffed, “we’ll wait here, but you have to promise to lay quietly.”

 

d’Artagnan stilled, grimacing at the way his side now throbbed. “Water?” he asked, licking his parched lips.

 

“Just a little,” Aramis nodded, reaching for a water skin and guiding it to the boy’s mouth.

 

As he tended to the Gascon, the Captain moved away, “I’ll go see how long before Athos joins you.”

 

Aramis threw the man a grateful look, his hands full of stubborn, confused Gascon. After a few swallows, the elder man pulled the water away and pulled another clean cloth from his bag, wetting it so he could wash away some of the grime from the boy’s face. The act drew a sigh of pleasure from the young man and Aramis smiled at the effect of such a simple act. “How are you feeling,” he asked as he continued his ministrations.

 

“Mmm, sore, tired,” d’Artagnan mumbled.

 

“I would imagine so,” Aramis agreed. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

 

“No,” he shook his head weakly, “had to stay awake, keep Athos safe.”

 

Aramis frowned at the boy’s repeated statement that he needed to keep Athos safe. “Safe from what?” he asked.

 

“From furry,” the boy muttered, “tried to bite me.”

 

Aramis leaned closer, trying to determine if what he was hearing was fact or the results of the Gascon’s troubled mind. “Did you say something tried to bite you?”

 

“Mmm,” the young man hummed. “Had to stay awake ‘cause Athos wouldn’t wake up.”

 

That got the medic’s attention and he pressed for more information, “When did Athos fall asleep?”

 

The Gascon lifted one shoulder in a sloppy shrug, “Not sure, around the time you left.”

 

Sitting back on his haunches Aramis considered this new information, his worry for the older man spiking. Treville returned at that moment with news of his own, “They’ve managed to free Athos and are getting ready to hoist him up now. Is there room in there for two?” he motioned to the back of the cart.

 

“We’ll make room,” Aramis replied, already starting to move things around to make space for their other friend. “Has he woken at all?”

 

The Captain shook his head, “Not that I’m aware of.” Lowering his voice, he continued, “Porthos seemed in quite the hurry to get him out of there, though.”

 

Aramis understood the underlying worry behind the man’s words as he climbed out of the cart to make way for their second patient. The Musketeers pulling Athos up worked swiftly and carefully to bring him out of the caved in tunnel. As soon as he was up, Aramis was there to untie the rope from around his chest and he and the Captain carried him to the cart. Aramis worked efficiently to splint Athos’ damaged leg so the bones didn’t shift during their return journey and, by the time he’d finished, Porthos had joined him and was ready to take them back to the garrison. Aramis gave his friend a short nod and Porthos prodded the horses into motion, maintaining a slow pace to soften the ride for his friends. d’Artagnan had watched Aramis the entire time he tended to Athos and, once they were in motion, he finally closed his eyes, content to have his mentor ensconced beside him with Aramis watching over them both.

 

Their arrival at the garrison was met with a flurry of activity as more men descended on the cart, helping to carry their injured comrades to the infirmary. As promised, a surgeon awaited their arrival and had two beds ready along with a table that held his supplies. Athos was brought in first and the surgeon directed the men to lay his patient on the bed furthest from the door. He followed in their wake, already moving to examine the splinted leg and his patient’s general condition. Seconds later d’Artagnan was carried in and deposited on the other bed, Aramis following behind and striding over to talk with the surgeon as soon as he’d spotted the man.

 

Pointing to Athos, he explained, “He’s broken the bones in his lower leg. The blood flow to his foot seems good and I just added the splint prior to the trip back. He’s been in a cool, damp space for more than a day and seems to be in shock. d’Artagnan did his best to keep him warm but I don’t think he’s had anything to eat or drink during that time.”

 

The surgeon nodded as he confirmed for himself what the he’d just been told. “And the other one?”

 

“He has a piece of wood in his side, between his ribs and hip. I don’t think it hit anything vital, but,” he hesitated, biting his lip, “the wood is quite rotted. I believe infection has already set in and he’s been bleeding the entire time.”

 

The surgeon’s head snapped up at that and he moved away from Athos to examine the young man instead. “We’ll need to get this out and stop the bleeding right away,” he said. “Can you get him ready for me?”

 

Aramis nodded and Porthos looked on, waiting to be told what to do. The medic looked to one of the men and ordered, “Bring hot and cold water and more bandages. Porthos, help me get his clothes off.” The men moved into action, the surgeon preparing his knife, tweezers and a needle and thread.

 

As the two men undressed their friend, sitting him up to remove his doublet, boots and breeches, then proceeding to cut off his shirt, d’Artagnan roused somewhat and looked blearily at the activity that surrounded him. “Wha?” he slurred.

 

Aramis moved to the boy’s head immediately as Porthos finished with his clothes, “d’Artagnan, I had hoped you’d stay asleep for this.” The Gascon’s eyes searched Aramis’, not understanding why the older man would want him asleep. “We have to remove the wood from your side and stop the bleeding.”

 

The young man’s eyes blinked lethargically, processing his friend’s words. When he spoke, Aramis was stunned. “S’alright ‘Mis, I trust you.” Aramis nodded and tried to smile in reassurance, squeezing the young man’s shoulder.

 

Porthos appeared at d’Artagnan’s other side and looked over at Aramis, hoisting the bottle in his hand questioningly. At Aramis’ nod, the large man leaned over and lifted d’Artagnan’s head, placing the bottle at the young man’s lips. “Drink,” he ordered. The Gascon managed several deep swallows and when he’d finished, Porthos looked up at his other friend, “We’re ready.”

 

Aramis gave a short nod of understanding and turned to the surgeon, “What do you need us to do?”

 

The surgeon eyed the group for a moment before deciding, “You,” he motioned to Porthos, “hold his legs. I’ve no doubt the boy will fight like the devil once we start. “You,” he turned to Aramis, “can you hold his shoulders and help me with the wound?” At the men’s nods, they moved into place, the Gascon still blinking slowly, not fully comprehending what was happening.

 

As Aramis pressed down on the young man’s shoulders, he made eye contact with him, seeing nothing but absolute faith. With a quick inhale, he nodded to the surgeon to begin. The man next to him wrapped a length of cloth around the wood projecting from d’Artagnan’s side and then gripped it tightly. With a grunt, he pulled it free, wrenching a cry from the young man’s lips as he writhed beneath the hands holding him. The surgeon wasted no time and moved quickly to wipe up the blood that welled from the boy’s flank, sopping it up with several clean cloths in order to get a better look. Pouring a large measure of brandy into the wound, which pulled another sound of agony from the Gascon, he pushed into the wound with a set of tweezers, digging around for the small splinters that had been left behind from the rotted timbre. By this point the young man was pleading with them to stop, half-coherent words spilling from his mouth as Aramis and Porthos pushed the weight of their bodies on his to keep him still. The surgeon had a determined look on his face as he poured more alcohol into the wound, ignoring the yell of pain that came from his patient, and plunging the tweezers in again and again to remove every last piece of infection-causing debris.

 

d’Argagnan was panting heavily, his face covered in sweat as he whimpered with each touch of the surgeon’s tools. Aramis had bent forward at some point and was murmuring in the boy’s ear, his efforts sadly having little effect against the pain the surgeon was inflicting. A final dousing of alcohol had the young man attempting once more to arch away from the pain, his cry cut-off midway as his body fell limp. Aramis’ hand shifted quickly from the boy’s shoulder to his neck, confirming that his heart still beat and their friend had finally passed out. “Unconscious,” he informed the two men.

 

“’Bout bloody time,” Porthos groused, hating how much pain the young man had endured.

 

“I think the wound is clear now. Would you take a second look for me?” the surgeon offered to Aramis. The Musketeer wiped at the wetness on the boy’s flank as he examined the wound and gave a nod of approval. The surgeon heated and then doused his needle in the brandy, beginning to stitch the jagged edges of the wound together. When he’d finished and applied a bandage, all four men were covered in sweat and Porthos wet a clean cloth and wiped the young man’s face, neck and chest before covering him with a blanket.

 

In the meantime, the surgeon had checked again on Athos, he and Aramis ensuring the man’s bones were properly set and held fast by the splint. He and Aramis then conferred quietly as the man packed away his things in preparation to go. Porthos brought a chair over while the men talked, positioning it between his friends’ beds. With their conversation over, the surgeon nodded in farewell to Porthos before exiting the infirmary. Aramis released a breath as he got his own chair and sat on d’Artagnan’s other side.

 

“So?” Porthos asked.

 

“So, Athos’ leg is set and splinted and he seems to warming up. As soon as he’s awake, we’ll need to get some water into him. I’ll make up a draught for the pain as well, since his next few days will be extremely unpleasant.”

 

Porthos offered a slight grin at his friend’s understatement, remembering well his own broken bones. “And the boy?”

 

“Infection has already set in but the surgeon is relatively certain that he removed all the splinters from the wound. Assuming we can contain the infection, he should heal well.”

 

“And you?” Porthos asked softly.

 

Aramis startled at the question, taking a moment to comprehend his friend’s meaning. “I’m fine, Porthos,” he replied, his tone tinged with both annoyance and affection.

 

“Maybe you should get some rest?” Porthos suggested, head motioning towards the other empty beds around them.

 

Aramis shook his head firmly, as Porthos knew he would, “I’ll rest when they’ve woken. Why don’t you get some sleep instead?” He grinned ruefully at his friend, “Once they’re on the mend, you know I’ll be of no use to anyone and you’ll have to take over.”

 

Porthos nodded, very familiar with his friend’s tendency to watch over his patients until they were no longer at risk, then collapsing into a deep sleep for several hours to recover from the physical and mental strains of caring for his brothers. The large man pushed himself from his chair, sitting on a bed across from his friends, removing his doublet and boots. “Wake me if anything happens.” With that, he fell onto his side and was asleep moments later.

 

Aramis leaned forward to place a hand on their young friend’s brow, frowning at the heat that was taking up residence there, a sure sign that the infection had taken hold. “I would be quite happy to have fewer opportunities to practice my skills on you, d’Artagnan.” Sighing, he wet a cloth and placed it on the boy’s forehead, before standing to collect his bag of medical supplies and pulling out several items that he’d need to care for his two friends.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as the bandage was pulled away, Porthos knew things had taken a turn for the worse, drawing back from the pungent odor of infection that came from the wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, comment and leave kudos. I'm grateful that folks seem to be enjoying it and love reading the comments you've been sharing.

Aramis spent the next few hours sitting watch over his friends, waiting for any signs of discomfort or awareness. He’d prepared pain draughts for both men and used a salve of his own creation on d’Artagnan’s stiches, hopeful that it would aid in healing and push back the infection that festered there. After a couple of hours he grew weary and found his eyes growing heavy, so he pushed himself into action to stave off sleep. First, he gathered more clean cloths and the basin of hot water that had since cooled to warm, and meticulously bathed Athos’ face and body, wincing at the many bruises and abrasions he found on the man’s legs. When his friend was clean, he rubbed a balm over the bruises to minimize their soreness. Next, he did the same with d’Artagnan, pleased that the boy had far fewer marks from his time belowground.

 

Having nothing more to occupy his time, he re-wet the cloth on d’Artganan’s brow, unhappy with the increasing heat, and then leaned back in his chair. It seemed like only moments later he was startled to find that he’d nodded off and he opened his eyes to a much more dimly-lit room, night having fully fallen and all but one of the candles having burned down and extinguished themselves. A groan caught his attention from the bed beside him and Aramis realized that this must have been what woke him originally. The Gascon’s upper body practically shone with the sweat that covered him and he tossed his head weakly as he moaned. Aramis removed the now warm cloth from the young man’s brow, wetting it in the cool water beside him, and wiped it along the man’s face and neck. The Gascon opened his eyes as Aramis swept the cloth along his collarbone, blinking fuzzily as he tried to focus.

 

“Hello,” Aramis said softly, pleased to see his friend awake. d’Artagnan remained silent, too exhausted and in pain to move. Aramis reached for a cup of water and lifted the young man’s head so he could drink, something he did quite enthusiastically once he tasted the cool liquid. “That’s enough for now,” Aramis said as he pulled the cup away and set the boy’s head back on his pillow. d’Artagnan’s eyes wandered from Aramis’ face and his breathing quickened, causing the medic’s brow to furrow at the odd reaction. “d’Artagnan, what is it? Are you in much pain?” As he asked, he was already reaching for the pain draught he’d prepared.

 

The Gascon’s movements became more animated as he jerked his arms in an effort to lift himself up. “No, you must remain still or you’ll pull your stiches,” Aramis explained, a hand on the boy’s chest. His words didn’t seem to be getting through though, and the young man continued to struggle, now pushing with one hand at Aramis’, his eyes rolling wildly around the room. At the same time d’Artagnan’s breathing had grown labored as he nearly panted in his panic, a low keening sound now coming from his throat.

 

“Porthos!” Aramis called to his friend, thankful for the years of soldiering that had gifted the larger man with the ability to come instantly awake.

 

Within moments he stood at his friend’s side, adding his hands to d’Artagnan’s arm and leg as he looked inquiringly at Aramis. “What’s going on?”

 

“I’m not sure, but he’s going to reopen his wound if we can’t calm him. Can you hold him while I get this pain draught down his throat?”

 

Porthos nodded and Aramis risked releasing his hold, lifting the boy’s head up and practically pouring the medicine into his mouth. d’Artagnan sputtered and nearly choked, but then his body’s instincts took over and he swallowed. By the time he’d finished, his body was already starting to relax but his eyes still jumped skittishly around the room until they landed for a moment on Porthos. “Safe?” he breathed out.

 

Porthos and Aramis shared a look of confusion but then the large man moved a hand to the Gascon’s face, cupping one cheek as he answered, “You’re safe.”

 

“No,” the young man seemed ready to become agitated again, “Athos safe?”

 

“Yes, Athos is safe. He’s here, in the next bed,” Porthos motioned with his head.

 

Apparently that was the answer he’d been waiting for, because at hearing his friend’s words, d’Artagnan sank back and closed his eyes. Aramis and Porthos sat quietly for several moments on either side of the young man’s bed before Porthos broke the silence, “What was all that about?”

 

“Honestly, I’m not sure. He said something similar when he roused in the cart and refused to leave until Athos was by his side.” Aramis looked at his friend, “Did you see anything down there that would have frightened him so?”

 

Porthos shrugged, running a hand through his curls, “I didn’t really look around much. Was a little preoccupied getting Athos free.”

 

Aramis nodded, “As was I. Perhaps it’s just the fever.”

 

Porthos gave a nod in reply, but both men silently agreed they would need to keep a closer eye on this behaviour and, if needed, investigate further. 

* * *

Aramis had been unable to convince Porthos to return to bed and the two sat together for several hours, conversing quietly as they continued to tend d’Artagnan’s fever. Fortunately he’d remained mostly asleep, although his fevered dreams had him occasionally muttering things too softly for either man to understand. Athos was the young man’s complete opposite in every way, lying unmoving and quiet to the point that both men took turns to occasionally confirm that the older man still breathed. Nearing dawn, Porthos finally convinced Aramis to rest for a while, receiving strict instructions regarding the two men’s care. Porthos managed to avoid rolling his eyes, recognizing his friend’s meticulous practices as a manifestation of his deep caring and concern for their brothers.

 

Soon after Aramis had retired, Athos gave his first indication of waking, a low groan accompanied by a flutter of eyelids that had Porthos grinning. Knowing that the man would be in a great deal of pain, he moved immediately to lift the man’s head to help him drink the draught Aramis had prepared. Porthos was pleased when Athos parted his lips obligingly and swallowed the cup’s contents, before bringing his eyes to Porthos’ face in an effort to focus. When he did, his lips quirked at recognizing his friend. “You got us out,’ Athos breathed.

 

“Of course we did, was there ever any doubt?” Porthos’ eyes twinkled as he squeezed his friend’s shoulder.

 

“d’Artagnan?” Athos asked weakly.

 

“In the next bed,” Porthos assured him.

 

Athos tried to lift his head, but wasn’t able to manage it, “My leg?”

 

“Broken, but still attached,” Porthos replied. “Aramis said you have to drink.” He brought a cup of water to his friend’s mouth and again lifted his head so he didn’t choke, happy when the cup came away empty. Athos’ eyelids were already drooping and Porthos grinned fondly. “Sleep, there’ll be plenty of time for conversation later.”

 

Athos drifted off quickly, aided by the powerful pain reliever Aramis had mixed. On his other side, d’Artagnan still tossed weakly and Porthos pulled the boy’s blanket back, wiping at his body and neck in an effort to bring his fever down. Placing a hand on the young man’s brow it seemed to him that d’Artagnan was even hotter than before, nothing they’d done so far making even the slightest dent in the fever. Porthos pulled the blanket back further, exposing the Gascon’s bandaged flank and decided to have a look at the wound. As soon as the bandage was pulled away, Porthos knew things had taken a turn for the worse, drawing back from the pungent odor of infection that came from the wound. He bit his lip, considering whether to wake his exhausted friend who had been resting for less than an hour, but a quiet whimper from the young man had him moving to wake Aramis.

 

“Aramis,” he shook his friend gently, “I think you need to have another look at d’Artagnan’s side.” The medic blinked wearily but nodded and was quickly moving to the boy’s bed. Dropping heavily into the chair he frowned at the combination of blood and pus that squeezed between the stiches, the wound itself swollen and slightly distended.

 

“I need a knife,” Aramis stated, hand outstretched, trusting that Porthos would provide him with the requested item. Porthos moved quickly to douse his blade with the remaining brandy from earlier and placed it into his friend’s waiting hand. “And clean bandages,” he said as he leaned over the wound and proceeded to cut through three stiches to allow the infection to drain. Once Porthos stood next to him with the bandages, Aramis pressed gently against the sides of the injury, releasing a combination of blood and pus. Porthos automatically handed him a fresh cloth to wipe away the results of his efforts, then passed him the bandages when the blood ran clear.

 

Before bandaging the wound, Aramis reached to the table behind him and covered the entire length of the injury with the salve he’d used earlier. A hand on the boy’s brow confirmed Porthos suspicion’s that the fever had grown worse, likely a result of the festering wound they’d just dealt with. Leaning back in his chair, Aramis looked up at his still standing friend, “You were right to wake me. The surgeon’s stiches kept him from bleeding out but they also kept the infection in. We’ll need to check it regularly to make sure it continues to drain.”

 

Porthos nodded his agreement before sharing his piece of good news, “Athos woke earlier. He knew who I was and remembered about his leg and d’Artagnan.” Aramis dropped his head in relief at the good news, pushing a sigh from his chest. Porthos clasped his friend’s shoulder as he continued, “He drank a cup of water and the pain draught you left.”

 

“Thank you,” Aramis whispered, feeling something in his chest loosen at the news that their elder brother had begun to recover.

 

“Now, back to bed with you,” Porthos ordered, already moving to lift his friend from the chair. “It won’t do for you to look worse than our patients when they wake.”

 

Aramis allowed himself to be bundled back to bed, his fatigue still overwhelming him and his relief at Athos’ improved condition comforting him enough to permit him to rest. Porthos returned to his silent vigil between his two friends’ beds, feeling just as conflicted as Aramis about their current state. He knew that overall Athos’ recovery would likely be longer and more painful, requiring weeks of bed rest followed by weeks of strengthening before their leader would be able to go back to active duty. Knowing his friend’s lack of patience with such things, Porthos shuddered at the difficulties that awaited them as they ensured Athos didn’t push himself too hard, too quickly, setting himself back. d’Artagnan, on the other hand, would recover faster than his mentor, but had a more challenging path to face now as he first needed to battle the infection that had taken hold. This would likely mean a day or two of sleepless nights for Aramis and Porthos as they did everything in their power to help the boy turn the tide in his favour.

 

Porthos scrubbed a hand across his face as he turned his gaze out the window, seeing the first pinkish streaks of sunrise spreading across the sky. Finally Paris had been released from the dreary, overcast grayness that had marked the previous days, the rains having stopped sometime during the night. The view brought a smile to Porthos’ face as the anticipation of a fresh, new day gave him hope that d’Artagnan might also turn a corner and begin to improve. Removing the cloth from the young man’s brow, he wet it with cool water before replacing it, sitting back to wait for one of his friends to wake. 

* * *

The next two days passed in a blur for the two friends, Aramis and Porthos taking turns to attend to their personal needs in between impromptu naps and caring for their injured comrades. As Porthos had predicted, the Gascon’s condition was dire and Aramis had resorted to bathing the boy almost continuously with cool water, leaving him uncovered and dressed only in his braies. Porthos cringed at the sight of the young man’s almost continual shivering and fever-induced babbling but, beyond pouring medicine-infused water into the boy’s mouth when they could manage it, there was little else to be done. Aramis had remained watchful of the boy’s wound and was thankful when, earlier that afternoon, only untainted blood had run from the young man’s side, the infection seemingly clearing at last. He’d diligently covered the wound with his salve before bandaging it loosely, still not one hundred percent certain that the opening should be closed.

 

Athos had been a nearly perfect patient although, to be fair, it was difficult to be anything but when one mostly just slept and ate. The man’s waking moments were growing longer and more frequent, but the price he paid for his awareness was not one that Aramis was willing to allow, forcing another pain draught on him as soon as they were able, which had the unfortunate side-effect of lulling him back to sleep. Regardless, Aramis was pleased that Athos was coherent and had been able to both eat and drink, and based on his daily inspection, the broken bones seemed to be knitting well. An added benefit to the many hours of sleep Athos was getting was the fact that he’d had little opportunity to scrutinize d’Artagnan or even to interrogate his friends about the young man’s condition. Both men intentionally seated themselves in Athos’ line of sight, preventing him from getting a good look at the boy and, so far, Athos’ pain and weariness had prevented him from pressing the situation – something both men knew could not last.

 

It was evening now and the two friends were enjoying a quiet meal together while the other two slept, aided by Aramis’ herbs and the exhaustion that came from using all of one’s reserves to heal. As Porthos spooned another mouthful of stew into his mouth, he motioned to where the Gascon slept, his body having cooled enough that Aramis had replaced the blanket, covering him to the waist. “He seems to be resting easier now.”

 

It was true; as the fever had raged through his body, he’d lain restlessly, head tossing often as incoherent murmurings fell from his lips. There had been few periods of silence, reflecting the battle the young man waged against the infection, and both Musketeers were grateful to finally see the boy getting some proper rest. “I think he’s finally starting to get better,” Aramis replied after swallowing a mouthful of his own.

 

Porthos placed his bowl on the table that sat between them, lifting a hand to rub his gritty, tired eyes. Aramis noticed the action at once and, while his body cried for sleep as well, Porthos had been awake the longer of the two, allowing the other man to rest for most of the afternoon. Tipping his wine glass in Porthos’ direction, he observed, “I believe it’s your turn to sleep. I managed enough rest this afternoon that I’ll be alright for the next few hours.”

 

Porthos nodded. They had fallen into this arrangement easily, grabbing a few hours here and there as their bodies demanded, neither man prepared to take a full night’s rest while things with the young man had remained so uncertain. “Wake me at midnight?” Porthos asked, knowing that would allow him almost five hours of uninterrupted sleep, a luxury neither had been afforded since their friends had gone missing.

 

“Or perhaps a bit later,” Aramis suggested. “d’Artagnan is getting better and we’ll need to get back to a more natural sleep schedule ourselves. Treville has been generous but I can’t imagine he’ll be able to keep us off rotation for much longer.”

 

Porthos agreed ruefully, “No later than one, then. We can see how the young man’s faring and, if everything’s alright, I’ll try to catch a few more hours at his bedside.”

 

Both men knew it was not ideal, but it was a compromise that they could live with, bringing them one step closer to normalcy. Porthos drained his wine glass and shuffled over to what he’d started to think of as _his_ bed, dropping into it with a sigh and drifting quickly off to sleep. Aramis enjoyed the calm of knowing that his brothers were healing and that there was nothing much to do for now other than to enjoy the rest of his meal and bide his time until one of the men awoke.

 

It was nearing midnight and Aramis still savoured some of the wine from earlier, reading a book of poems which Athos had loaned him. The hours since Porthos had retired had been peaceful and even relaxing, but now it seemed that the Gascon was going to give him something to do as he started to shift and show signs of waking up. Placing his book on the table beside him, Aramis put a hand on the young man’s brow, checking for the hundredth time the level of heat found there and smiling at the fact that it continued to improve. He pushed the boy’s damp bangs away from his face, keeping a hand on his head as he watched the Gascon struggle to pry open his eyes. At the last moment Aramis turned and blew out the candle beside him, thinking that it would be too bright for the young man’s eyes which had not opened in two days.

 

When d’Artagnan propped his eyes open, Aramis was met with two glazed, brown pools that strained to focus. “Hello, d’Artagnan, are you with me?” Aramis inquired, trying to gauge the young man’s level of awareness. The Gascon’s eyes flitted away from his and he blinked several times before returning to look at the man above him.

 

“’Mis?” d’Artagnan croaked.

 

Aramis smiled at him, turning to pour a cup of water, and then lifting the boy’s head so he could drink. The boy had consumed very little over the past days and the older man was happy to be able to get some fluids into his patient, especially given how much he’d sweated out. Pulling the half-empty cup away and replacing it on the table, Aramis asked, “How are you feeling?”

 

d’Artagnan frowned at the question, licking his dry lips before answering, “Tired, sore.” He blinked wearily before refocusing again, “Wha’ happened?”

 

“You’ve been quite ill,” Aramis explained, pulling the blanket up to the boy’s shoulders as he observed a shiver rack the young man’s form. “Your wound was infected and you’ve had Porthos and me a little worried,” the medic teased.

 

“Sorry,” the Gascon whispered. “How long?”

 

“This is the third day since we rescued you and Athos,” Aramis replied.

 

Once more the boy’s eyes threatened to close and he fought to keep them open. Swallowing thickly, he commented, “It’s dark.”

 

“Yes,” Aramis grinned at him, “it’s the middle of the night.” Aramis noted how the young man’s breathing seemed to quicken and how his eyes began to roam as if searching for something. Leaning closer he asked, “Is everything alright, d’Artagnan?”

 

“Why is it so dark?” the Gascon asked, his hands clenching at his sides as he tried to contain his fear.

 

His words brought a frown to Aramis’ face and he glanced around the darkened room, noting the sole candle next to Athos’ bed. “I had thought it would be easier on your eyes if you didn’t open them to full candlelight.” Pausing for a moment to consider the young man in front of him, he continued “Would you like me to light another?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded eagerly, his eyes still darting about the room and his face now covered in a sheen of sweat. Aramis moved slowly so he didn’t startle the young man and, keeping one eye on his charge, he grasped the candle and stood, walking over to light it with the flame at Athos’ bedside. He could tell that d’Artagnan was watching him closely, his eyes never leaving Aramis, and he carried the candle back and sat down again. “Is that better?”

 

The Gascon nodded again and Aramis could see the boy fisting a hand into his blanket as he tried to regain control over his panicked breathing. Aramis moved slowly to place a hand on the boy’s chest, feeling the fluttering heart and the minute trembling that seemed to have overtaken the young man. At his touch, d’Artagnan’s eyes flew to his and he struggled to take a deep breath, saying “S’fine, I’m fine.”

 

Aramis nodded disbelievingly, but saw no reason to contradict his friend while in his current state. Instead, he began humming softly and took a damp cloth to d’Artagnan’s face, removing the sweat that had appeared there. He noted that the boy seemed to be responding positively to his actions so he kept humming and moved a hand to the young man’s shoulder, rubbing gently at the tense muscles there in an effort to further relax him. He could hear the change in d’Artagnan’s breathing as it finally slowed and felt the tension ebbing from the muscles underneath his hand. Sensing that the boy would soon be asleep, he reached for another cup that sat on the table, “d’Artagnan, before you sleep, I’d like you to drink this.”

 

The young man looked at him blankly but obediently parted his lips as Aramis supported his head so he could drink. When he’d finished the pain draught, Aramis pulled the blanket to lay under his friend’s chin and whispered, “Sleep, your body needs the rest.”

 

He watched as his friend’s eyes closed and frowned as he contemplated the boy’s reaction to the dimly lit room. It was possible that the Gascon was still confused because of the fever, but it seemed odd that he’d begun to fixate on the darkness as his choice of demon. Aramis promised himself that he would share his concerns with Porthos when he woke his friend so they could both keep a closer watch on what was happening with the young man.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While none of them looked forward to the separation, it was clear that their medic was most troubled by the idea of not being able to care for his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the lovely comments that folks have left! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The rest of the night had passed relatively easily, Porthos having gotten up after 1am and then dozing in his chair, feet propped on d’Artagnan’s bed, until morning. He finally felt like he’d managed to catch up on the many missed hours of rest they’d experienced after first rescuing their friends and, as he stretched his stiff muscles, Porthos realized that he felt quite good. After a quick check on both their patients, Porthos resolved to let Aramis sleep a while longer and went down to fetch breakfast along with some broth he hoped to be able to feed to the recovering men.

 

When he returned with a tray, Aramis was just getting up and Porthos noted happily that his friend looked much better for the undisturbed sleep he’d gotten. “’Morning,” Porthos greeted him as he set the tray down on the table.

 

Aramis flashed him a smile that was much closer to its usual brightness as he returned the greeting and pulled on his boots, “Good morning. How are our patients today?”

 

“Better, I think,” he replied as he sat down at the table and unpacked the food he’d brought. “They both slept through the night and Serge made them broth if you think it’s alright to wake them?”

 

Aramis nodded, taking a seat across from his friend, “Let’s have breakfast first and then we’ll see if we can get them to eat as well.”

 

When they’d finished, Aramis ensured he had pain draughts ready for both men before they attempted to wake them. The two friends moved first to Athos’ side, Porthos grabbing a couple of extra pillows from the other beds so they could prop their friend up while he ate. Athos’ appetite had recovered quickly from his day of enforced fasting and both friends knew he’d be more comfortable if he could sit up for a while as long as the pain in his leg wasn’t too great. Placing a hand on one arm, Aramis bent over to wake their friend, “Athos, it’s morning.”

 

Both men were pleased when Athos opened his eyes almost immediately and, as soon as he’d focused on his two friends, Aramis squeezed his arm to get his attention, “How is the pain today?” The medic was determined to manage Athos’ pain and knew from experience that his friend tended to downplay his condition.

 

Athos thought a moment before answering, “Feels like someone is trying to rip my leg off.” Aramis was pleased that their friend was being honest and unsurprised at the amount of discomfort he was in, having already made a fair guess by the lines of pain around Athos’ eyes.

 

“Pain draught first and we’ll give you a few minutes for it to take effect before we help you sit up.” Athos looked ready to argue and Aramis squeezed his arm again, “Just half for now so you can stay awake for a bit, but you’ll take the rest after so you can rest.”

 

Athos nodded and Porthos placed the pillows he held on a chair as he helped the older man lift up slightly so he could drink. Both friends sat down to wait until the medicine had taken effect, Athos distracting himself by asking a few questions. “How long has it been?”

 

“Four days since we pulled you out,” Porthos answered.

 

Athos turned his head towards d’Artagnan’s bed, frowning when he found his view blocked, “How is d’Artagnan?”

 

Both men had been intentionally ambiguous about the boy’s condition until now, hoping that his fever would break before Athos’ regained his senses. Now Porthos looked inquiringly at Aramis, uncertain about what answer to give. Athos’ clear gaze stared at Aramis, waiting for a response, and the latter man knew it was time to be forthright about their young friend’s condition. “He’s doing much better now,” Aramis replied. “His wound was infected but I believe we managed to rid his body of the last of it yesterday and his fever has been steadily dropping. After you’ve eaten, we’ll try to wake him and get him to drink some broth.”

 

Athos nodded, seemingly satisfied. “His wound was grave?” he asked.

 

Aramis gave a slow nod, knowing that it would be unwise to keep anything from their friend, “The surgeon pulled a six inch piece of wood from his side, three inches of which was embedded beneath his skin. It was badly rotted and required a fair amount of attention before we were certain all of the splinters had been removed.” Athos winced in sympathy at Aramis’ words, knowing well the type of attention that his friend referred to.

 

Aramis saw the look that Athos made and placed a hand on the man’s arm, “He’s doing better now, Athos, and will recover.”

 

Porthos snorted from Athos’ other side, “He’ll probably be up and about before you will.” The comment drew another grimace from the older man as he realized the truth of his friend’s words.

 

“I’m going to be bedridden for weeks, aren’t I?” Athos groaned.

 

The two men couldn’t help but smile at the comment as Aramis confirmed, “Yes, and I expect you to be a far better patient than last time.” Last time it had been a slash to the man’s thigh that had cut so deeply Aramis could see bone. Despite the severity of the injury, Athos had insisted he was fine and had tried walking on it within a week. The situation had resolved itself with Athos reopening the wound and passing out from the resulting blood loss, at which point Treville had shouted himself nearly hoarse and threatened to put his lieutenant on parade duty until he was old and gray.

 

“I can have the Captain come threaten you now, if you’d prefer?” Aramis teased.

 

“That’s quite alright,” Athos replied dryly, understanding his friends’ frustration with his actions but at the same time, already dreading the hours of boredom that lay ahead of him.

 

Aramis motioned to Porthos as he stood to lift Athos’ shoulders, “That draught should have had time to take effect by now.” Between them, they soon had Athos propped up on the extra pillows, the cup of broth in his hands and some bread laying on his lap.

 

"Can you manage on your own for a bit?” Aramis asked. Athos rolled his eyes as he nodded. “Porthos, let’s try to wake our young Gascon.”

 

The two moved to the young man’s bed, Porthos placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezing to pull him from his slumber. “Time to wake up now, lad.” The two friends watched as d’Artagnan rolled his head away from Porthos, seeking to remain in sleep’s quiet embrace. “None of that now,” Porthos chided gently, “besides, I think Athos would like to see for himself that you’re alright.”

 

Athos’ name had the boy turning to face Porthos again and his eyes were soon opening, blinking heavily with the lingering effects of the medicine he’d been given the night prior. “Athos?” the Gascon croaked.

 

Porthos grinned at him, shaking his head at the strength of the bond between their oldest and youngest brothers, “Yeah, he’s been waitin’ for you to wake up, sleepyhead.”

 

d’Artagnan frowned, still not understanding, and Porthos shifted to the side so the young man had an unobstructed view of where Athos lay propped up in his bed. At the sight of his mentor, the young man smiled, eyes roving over the man in an attempt to assess his health. Athos sat quietly allowing it, lips quirking into a smile of his own, recognizing the boy’s need to confirm that he was recovering. “You’re alright,” d’Artagnan finally breathed out.

 

Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement, “And I’m glad to hear that you’re mending also.”

 

Confusion clouded the boy’s face as he drew a shaky hand to his side, having forgotten about his own injury. Aramis stopped his hand before it could jar the wound, “Best to leave that alone for now. I had to pull a few of the stiches out and we don’t want it to start bleeding again.”

 

Another questioning look passed over the young man’s face and Porthos huffed in amusement, “Let’s just say that you didn’t make things easy for us so it’s best just to listen to Aramis for now.”

 

“Sorry?” d’Artagnan offered weakly.

 

“Nothin’ to be sorry for; we’re just glad you’re getting better,” Porthos replied.

 

“Speaking of which, how _are_ you feeling?” Aramis interjected.

 

"Thirsty," the Gascon whispered and Porthos moved quickly to bring a cup of water to the boy’s lips to wet his throat.

 

“Better?” the large man asked and d’Artagnan nodded.

 

Aramis bent forward and placed his hand on the young man’s brow, feeling the fever still burning through him but at a much reduced temperature than before. “How is your pain?” Aramis queried.

 

“S’alright,” the Gascon replied.

 

Aramis nodded, allowing him the deception for now as long as the young man ate. He grasped the cup of broth and motioned to Porthos for another pillow to place beneath the man’s shoulders. As Porthos repositioned him, d’Artagnan closed his eyes and he gasped, the motion having reawakened a dull throb in his side. All three men watched carefully as the Gascon took a minute to calm his breathing, waiting for him to reopen his eyes. When he did, Aramis leaned forward again, offering the cup in his hands, “Better?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a slight tilt of his head and reached a shaky hand for the cup Aramis was handing to him. When Porthos saw how his hand trembled, he reached for it instead, placing it into the boy’s hand and stabilizing it with his own as he guided the cup to the young man’s lips. Aramis sent the larger man a look of thanks as d’Artagnan slowly sipped the warm liquid.

 

Aramis stood, surveying the three men, “Now that everyone’s awake, I’d best give the Captain an update. He’ll want to know that you’re both improving.”

 

Porthos nodded absently, his focus remaining on d’Artagnan and ensuring that the young man didn’t accidently spill the broth down his front. As Aramis turned to leave, Athos called to him “Please advise the Captain that I’ll be moving back to my rooms.”

 

Porthos snorted and Aramis merely grinned as he tossed back a response over his shoulder as he left, “Not until the surgeon and I decide you can and that won’t be any time soon.”

 

Athos grimaced at the reply, but had half-expected it; still, it would be unlike him not to try and he didn’t want to disappoint his brothers. d’Artagnan, however, seemed to latch onto the idea and he pushed the cup away from his mouth, forcing Porthos to tighten his hold and take it from him before it spilled. “Do you think we’ll be allowed out of here soon?” he asked hopefully.

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Porthos replied fondly, a smile softening his words, “You’ve still got a hole in your side and we can practically cook an egg on your brow. There’s no way Aramis will let you out of here for a few more days.”

 

The Gascon’s face fell and Porthos felt the need to backtrack, “Look, I’m sure your fever will break soon and, once it does, you’ll be allowed back to your room.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded slowly, seemingly reconsidering, “Perhaps it would be better if I stayed here until Athos is fit enough to leave. He may need help and you and Aramis won’t be able to stay with us the entire time.”

 

Porthos and Athos shared a glance, the former man raising a questioning eyebrow, but it was Aramis who answered from the doorway, “Actually, that’s an excellent idea.” He moved further into the room, addressing all three men, “I ran into the Captain on the way out and gave him an update.” He shifted his gaze to Porthos, “He’s given us two more days before we’ll need to return to the duty roster. He’d give us more but there’s several men out searching the countryside for some bandits who have been causing trouble, leaving us short-handed.” Porthos nodded, all of them understanding the duty they faced as soldiers.

 

“Athos, I won’t keep you here any longer than necessary; as soon as it’s safe to do so, we’ll move you back to your rooms,” Aramis continued. “Perhaps d’Artagnan can stay with you if we’re called away on a mission?”

 

Athos nodded, unhappy at the thought of needing help but recognizing that it would be several weeks before he could properly take care of all his needs alone. “That’s settled, then,” Porthos announced, bringing the cup of broth back to d’Artagnan’s mouth, making the young man grimace, but he took a drink nonetheless.

 

“Now, I believe it’s time for the rest of that pain draught,” Aramis stated as he noted Athos’ flagging posture. As he moved to the older man’s bed, handing him his medicine, he turned to address Porthos, “Let me know when he’s finished and I’ll come examine that wound.”

 

The Gascon rolled his eyes at the comment but knew there would be no escaping Aramis’ attentions and, truthfully, he was grateful to have brothers who cared enough to tend him so well. By the time he’d finished the broth, the discomfort in d’Artagnan’s side had grown enough to make him squirm, attempting to adjust his position to provide some relief. Aramis returned to his side while Porthos helped Athos get settled more comfortably.

 

Noting the boy’s discomfort and the sheen of sweat on his face, Aramis began his ministrations by wiping the young man’s face with a cool cloth. The Gascon sighed at the pleasant sensation, relaxing back into his pillows. “How are you feeling?” Aramis asked softly as he moved the cloth down to the boy’s neck.

 

d’Artagnan shifted his weary eyes to Aramis, “Hurts, I’m tired.”

 

“That’s not surprising,” Aramis commented with a smile. “Your body endured a great trauma and you’re just beginning to recover. You’ll feel tired for several days before you regain your strength.” Dropping the cloth back into the bowl behind him, Aramis moved a hand to the young man’s brow to gauge his temperature. “Not bad,” he murmured to himself. “I’m going to look at your wound now,” he informed the Gascon whose eyes had begun to close. Pulling back the bandage revealed a puckered wound that still seeped, but was free from infection. Aramis had no doubt that the skin was still raw and sore and, as he prodded it, d’Artagnan moved a hand weakly in protest. “Just a moment more,” he comforted as he applied more of his salve to the wound before adding a fresh bandage. “All done,” he said, looking up to find his patient’s eyes closed tightly against the pain, his breathing quick and shallow.

 

“Slow down your breathing,” the medic guided him, placing a calming hand on the Gascon’s chest. “That’s it,” he encouraged, as the young man managed to deepen his breaths, his brow unfurrowing as the pain in his side dulled. “Do you want something for the pain?”

 

d’Artagnan began to shake his head, but Aramis placed a hand on his cheek, stopping him and causing him to look up at the older man, “There’s no reason for you to suffer, d’Artagnan.” The Gascon bit his lip and nodded, Aramis smiling at him and helped him to drink the draught he prepared earlier. Within minutes the two Musketeers were once again alone as their two brothers succumbed to sleep.

 

The next four days passed in similar fashion with Porthos and Aramis taking turns away from the infirmary as d’Artagnan’s fever finally broke and the two friends’ periods of awareness increased. d’Artagnan could have returned to his room after the second day, but even the slightest movement had Athos in agony and the idea of shifting the man from his bed was resoundingly rebuffed. On the morning of the fifth day, Aramis and Porthos were called to the Captain’s office to receive their orders; they would be required to leave the garrison that afternoon. The two men entered the infirmary to share their news, knowing that they needed to make a decision before they left.

 

“Good morning,” Aramis greeted as he passed the doorway of the infirmary, Porthos on his heels calling out a similar greeting. The two men stopped in the middle of the room, Aramis twisting the hat in his hands.

 

“You have a mission,” Athos stated, recognizing the signs in his friends’ behaviour.

 

“Aye,” Porthos confirmed. “We leave this afternoon.”

 

“How long?” d’Artagnan asked, leaning forward as his curiosity got the better of him.

 

"A week,” Aramis replied, looking up from the floor to meet his friends’ gazes. While none of them looked forward to the separation, it was clear that their medic was most troubled by the idea of not being able to care for his friends.

 

Athos nodded decisively, “Then we’ll move to my rooms this morning before you go.”

 

“Athos,” Aramis began, fearing for the pain that would be involved.

 

“Aramis,” Athos interrupted him, “give me another of your pain draughts before we go and I’ll be fine. I trust you both to accomplish this with a minimum of discomfort.”

 

The sincerity in Athos’ eyes had Aramis dipping his head again in agreement, Porthos clapping his friend’s back in encouragement. “I’ll go round up a wagon while you get our patients ready.” Porthos turned his gaze to Athos, “A couple of the lads will help me carry you down and I don’t want to hear a word of complaint.” Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement and the large man turned on his heel to make the necessary arrangements while Aramis began preparing some pain relief for the older man.

 

As Aramis gathered supplies from the table next to d’Artagnan’s bed, the young man spoke softly, “Will he be able to manage the trip?”

 

Aramis nodded in reply, continuing to mix the draught. He knew it would be an unpleasant experience, but Athos would be far more comfortable once ensconced in his rooms; he would just need to do everything possible now to minimize the difficulties of the trip.

* * *

True to his word, Porthos had gotten everything ready in the garrison courtyard, padding the back of the wagon with several blankets and returning to the infirmary with Richard and Devoe who carried a stretcher between them. The sight of the stretcher drew a disgusted look from Athos, but he remained silent as he was shifted onto it, then carefully brought to the courtyard so he could be placed in the back of the wagon. Although Athos had born the trip stoically, Aramis could already see signs of the man’s discomfort as each step had jostled his healing limb. Aramis and d’Artagnan had followed behind the stretcher, the older man insisting that the Gascon lean on him for support as they descended the stairs.

 

Once Athos was properly settled, Aramis helped d’Artagnan into the seat next to Porthos, while he climbed into the back of the wagon to sit with his patient. He’d made the pain draught stronger than normal and Athos was having difficulty staying awake as a result; Aramis intended to encourage him to give up the battle since the trip would be far easier if completed while the older man slept. Once he’d positioned himself behind Athos so he could further steady the man, as well as unobtrusively keeping an eye on his condition, he nodded to Porthos at his back, prompting the swarthy Musketeer to snap the reins in his hands to get the horses moving. Athos’ rooms weren’t far away, but it would likely take them at least 15 minutes to navigate through the busy Parisian streets. Porthos had intentionally chosen a route with fewer people and dirt roads, but even without cobblestones beneath their wheels, the cart was frequently jostled, bringing a hiss of pain from Athos as he remained stubbornly awake.

 

By the time they’d arrived, Athos was pale and covered in sweat, the fire in his leg nearly consuming him. Aramis held his friend tightly, head bent, murmuring words of comfort as he tried to help his friend recover from the short journey. Porthos eyed the two men carefully and alighted from the wagon, moving to the other side to grasp d’Artagnan’s arm to help him down. He motioned with his head toward the house where Athos rented a room and, grasping the boy’s elbow, he moved them toward the door, intending to get the boy settled before returning to help bring Athos inside. The Gascon seemed to want to protest but a stern look from Porthos had him shuffling inside. Once he had the boy settled, Porthos returned to the wagon, nodding appreciatively at Richard and Devoe who had followed them and were now lifting Athos from Aramis’ embrace. Rather than letting go of the man entirely, Aramis guided his friend’s upper body to the edge of the wagon while each of the other two men held his legs. Porthos took Athos from Aramis’ hold and the three men carried him into his room in this fashion, Aramis following on their heels with his bag of medical supplies and the extra blankets they’d brought.

 

They laid Athos on his bed, Aramis folding two of the blankets and placing them below the injured leg so that it was slightly elevated. Porthos nodded his thanks to the Musketeers who’d helped them, dismissing them at the same time, and then moved to get fresh water from the well. d’Artagnan watched as Aramis sat next to Athos, the two men talking too quietly for him to hear what was being said. Moments later Porthos returned with the water and poured a measure into a bowl which he brought to Aramis. The medic took it with a smile, pulling a cloth from his bag and wetting it so he could wipe the sticky sweat from his friend’s face and neck. Next, Porthos poured some of the water into a cup, handing it to Aramis wordlessly when he’d finished washing their friend. Helping him raise his head, Aramis allowed Athos to drink deeply, before retrieving the cup from his hand. A last few murmured words had Aramis squeezing Athos’ shoulder before he stood to face his other two friends, motioning for Porthos to join him at the table where d’Artagnan sat.

 

“He’s fairly groggy from the draught I gave him and sleep is the best thing for him right now. d’Artagnan, keep his leg elevated as much as possible, especially for the next few hours since it may swell after being moved. He won’t like it, but he should stay in bed for the next week,” Aramis instructed.

 

The Gascon nodded, determined to take good care of his mentor while the others were away. Aramis leaned forward to meet the boy’s eye, resting a hand on his shoulder, “Make sure you take care of yourself as well.” The young man dipped his head with a shy smile. “Treville will have the surgeon check on you once a day and Serge will have someone bring meals twice daily. If there’s anything you need, send a message back with one of them and he’ll see it done.”

 

The Gascon rolled his eyes as he met the other man’s gaze, “We’ll be fine, Aramis, you needn’t worry so.”

 

Porthos chuckled, slapping a hand on Aramis’ back, knowing that his friend couldn’t help himself but amused by his mother-henning. “Come on, we need to get back and get ready to leave.”

 

Aramis nodded in agreement, squeezing d’Artagnan’s shoulder once more before removing his hand and glancing over to have a last look at Athos. Seemingly satisfied, he replaced his hat on his head and started for the door. Porthos laid a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder, bending forward to whisper, “Take care of yourselves. We’ll try to be back sooner if we can.”

 

The young man gave him a smile and short nod and watched as his two friends departed, part of him wishing that he could accompany them. Sighing, he scrubbed a hand across his face, surprised at how tired he was after only being up for a few hours. He eyed the cot that had been installed for him and considered lying down, but decided instead to stay awake a little longer in case Athos woke and needed him. He shifted in the chair, trying to alleviate some of the strain on his still tender side, finally coming to the conclusion that a comfortable position was outside of his reach. Sighing again, he picked up the book that lay on the table, opening it to the first page, and began to read.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his eyes closed, he prayed for a peaceful night, free from the nightmares that had plagued his sleep since their rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that the general consensus on the last chapter is that it was the calm before the storm, since there's no way for our boys to stay out of trouble. So, here's the start of the storm. Enjoy!

In the coming days, the two men fell into a routine with d’Artagnan rising early to collect their breakfast, having convinced the Captain after a couple days that he was capable of walking the short distance to the garrison and back. Treville had been unhappy about the Gascon’s desire for exercise so they had compromised, agreeing that the young man could visit the garrison in the mornings but their dinner would still be delivered to them in the evenings. When d’Artagnan returned with breakfast, he would help Athos with his morning ablutions and then the two would eat, the Gascon placing a chair next to his mentor’s bed so they could converse.

 

The surgeon came daily around mid-day to check on both men, although there was really little he could do other than adjust Athos’ pain medication, a process that d’Artagnan was happy to help with, ensuring that the man continued to take a potent enough mix to keep him comfortable. His own wound was healing well and the only requirement was for a clean bandage, a chore he managed himself. Evenings would bring someone from the garrison with their evening meal, and both men had been pleasantly surprised when Treville had undertaken the task himself one night, joining them and enjoying their company for several hours.

 

It was nearing the end of the week and Athos showed increasing signs of boredom, his level of patience decreasing as the days wore on. Both men were hopeful that either the surgeon or Aramis would approve Athos’ use of crutches at the week’s end, allowing the man to at least have a change of scenery and regain some of his lost independence. Evening was approaching and d’Artagnan sat at the table, cleaning his pistol while Athos sat reading in bed. A short rap on the door had both men’s heads turning toward it, d’Artagnan moving to place his pistol on the table so he could see who was there. Before the young man had a chance to do more than stand, the door swung open and revealed Aramis and Porthos, large grins on both men’s faces at seeing their friends. The two crossed the room quickly to set down the items in their hands before embracing d’Artagnan. Porthos held the young Gascon at arm’s length, eying him critically while Aramis moved to examine Athos.

 

“You look tired,” Porthos announced, earning an eye roll from the younger man.

 

“I’m fine, Porthos, and so is Athos,” he stated, looking over at where Aramis sat next to Athos’ bed. “The only thing you have to worry about is us dying of boredom.”

 

Porthos leaned forward conspiratorially, pitching his voice lower, “Has it gotten to that point?”

 

Athos answered, having clearly heard Porthos’ exaggerated whisper, “It’s gotten to that point and if you don’t let me out of this bed soon, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”

 

Aramis grinned at Porthos who released the Gascon’s arms and ducked back outside for a moment, bringing with him a set of crutches. “Guess it’s a good thing we brought these along,” he said, grinning widely. He moved across the room to hand them to Aramis and a grateful Athos who was already attempting to manoeuver himself out of bed. Taking the crutches from Porthos, Aramis placed a hand on Athos’ chest, cautioning him, “You can have these on two conditions. One, you do not attempt any long journeys. That means anything further than across the room is off limits for now.” Athos gave a put-upon sigh, but motioned with his hand for Aramis to continue. “And, two, you make sure you prop that leg up whether it’s on a chair or while in bed; I won’t have you undoing all the progress you’ve made so far.”

 

Athos nodded and raised a hand, requesting help in moving from the bed. Aramis glanced in Porthos’ direction and the two men worked together to first reposition the older man so that his legs hung off the side of the bed and then raised him upright, holding him there until the dizziness from his new position abated. With a nod from Athos, Aramis handed him first one and then the other crutch, still holding onto him until he was steady. The two friends took a step back and Athos crutched forward slowly, making his way to the table where d’Artagnan had pulled a chair out for him. Athos fell into the chair gratefully, tired from the short trip but lips quirking at the joy of finally leaving his bed. His three friends wore identical grins on their faces as they joined him at the table for dinner.

 

“I trust your mission was uneventful?” Athos asked around a spoonful of stew.

 

“Yeah, had to escort some second cousin of the Queen’s on a short trip. The most excitement we had was Aramis warding off the affections of one of the ladies,” Porthos stated, mirth in his eyes.

 

Aramis sputtered at the comment, turning to face the larger man, “Now that’s not fair. She isn’t the first to be smitten by my charm and handsome features.”

 

Porthos snorted as d’Artagnan looked between the two men in confusion, “So what was the problem, then?”

 

Aramis looked quite uncomfortable as he searched for the right words, “Her looks were somewhat…disagreeable.”

 

This drew a huff of laughter from Porthos who added, “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one.”

 

d’Artagnan and Porthos chuckled at their friend’s embarrassment and Athos watched them all with amusement. The past weeks had been difficult and he knew that this evening was exactly what all of them needed.

 

When they’d finished their meal and consumed several bottles of wine, Aramis and Porthos stood to leave. Clasping Athos’ shoulder, Aramis explained, “It was an early morning and a long ride today.”

 

The friends nodded in understanding, knowing well the fatigue that came from a hard day’s ride as well as the constant vigilance that was required when on escort duty. “Join us for breakfast at the garrison tomorrow?” Porthos asked. Throwing a glance at Aramis, he said, “I can come by with a horse so you can ride over in the morning.”

 

Aramis nodded, comfortable with the idea of the man riding as long as he kept his weight off the leg. Both of the injured men agreed and bid their friends good night. d’Artagnan moved to clean up from dinner, removing the dirty dishes and then getting Athos’ bed ready for him.

 

“There’s no need for that, d’Artagnan,” Athos told him.

 

The Gascon merely shrugged, “I don’t mind.” When he had everything sorted to his satisfaction, he returned to help Athos to his feet.

 

“I can manage,” Athos advised him, struggling to stand and hold onto the crutches at the same time. Neither man would be able to explain later how things had ended so badly, but in his haste to help Athos, d’Artagnan inadvertently managed to trip him with one of the crutches instead. As Athos tried to find his balance with only one foot, the young man again moved in an unexpected fashion, tangling the two together and bringing them down to the floor.

 

The impact of the fall took Athos’ breath away, likely the only reason why a shout of pain wasn’t pulled from his throat. As he lay panting, waiting for the white spots to disappear from his vision, he was vaguely aware of movement around him. d’Artagnan had scrambled to his feet as soon as he’d been able and words of apology now fell from his lips as he collected the discarded crutches and straightened the chair that had fallen over. Sitting on his haunches, he placed a hand on Athos’ chest, “Athos, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

 

Taking a shaky breath, Athos’ awareness returned enough to recognize the boy’s words. “I’m fine,” he breathed out.

 

d’Artagnan reached for him, pulling his shoulders up, eliciting a grunt from his mentor as he was shifted. “Just leave me, d’Artagnan, I can manage on my own.”

 

But the boy was not to be dissuaded and he continued to tug on his friend, leaning to position a shoulder under the older man’s arm and dragging him to his feet. This time a yelp escaped, pulling another stream of apologies from the Gascon as he positioned Athos in the chair he’d righted earlier. When he was done, both men were breathing heavily, d’Artagnan from exertion and Athos from the pain of having his leg jarred. Reaching down to hold his leg, Athos gritted out, “I’ll be fine from here. Just hand me my crutches.”

 

d’Artagnan looked at Athos disbelievingly, “What?”

 

Athos pinned his protégé with a stern gaze, “Just give me the crutches and then go.”

 

“But, I’m supposed to stay with you,” the Gascon stammered.

 

Massaging his leg to try and alleviate some of his pain, Athos was beginning to lose patience, “That was only while Aramis and Porthos were away. Now that I have crutches, I don’t need you to stay here.”

 

“Maybe I should just stay the night and we can discuss it with Aramis tomorrow,” the young man suggested.

 

Athos narrowed his eyes, in too much pain and relishing some privacy after too many days spent relying on others, “Just go, d’Artagnan. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“But,” d’Artagnan began again, only to be cut off by the other man.

 

“Go!” Athos repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I have no need for a nursemaid.”

 

The Gascon nodded numbly, glancing around at the few belongings he’d brought back with him and deciding to just take his doublet and weapons before making his way out. He paused at the door, turning to look at Athos who was still bent over his broken leg, then exited, pulling the door closed behind him.

 

Athos waited several minutes before leaning back in his chair, welcoming the opportunity to be alone for the first time in days. It was not that he minded the company of his fellow Musketeers, but being in such close quarters for such a long period of time, coupled with a need to hide the amount of pain he was in grew tiring, and he’d longed for the opportunity to simply be by himself. He was not angry with d’Artagnan for what had happened, but had been unable to hold his words when the pain of his fall had combined with fraying nerves at having someone constantly in his space. The morning walks d’Artagnan had taken had offered him an hour or so each day to be alone with his thoughts, but it was too little and Athos had found his patience waning as the week had progressed.

 

Athos knew the boy had been hurt by his words, but the young man also had a capacity for forgiveness that the older man had never seen in others; Athos was confident that the boy would accept his apology in the morning, especially after both spent the night apart, allowing their heated emotions to cool. He looked over at the bed, part of him wishing he’d allowed the boy to stay at least long enough to help him get settled, but the feelings of helplessness he’d been dealing with over the past week had only contributed to his brash words tonight. With a sigh, Athos grasped hold of his crutches with one hand, placing the other on the back of the chair, and pulled himself carefully upright. When he’d made it to the bed and was seated at its edge, he found himself smiling at having accomplished the task on his own. With a sense of satisfaction he turned and lifted his broken leg up, propping it onto the pile of blankets that lay at the foot of his bed, and then relaxed back into his pillows, comfortable that he didn’t need anything else to help him fall asleep.

* * *

d’Artagnan kept a hand on his side, bracing the wound that still ached dully, the pain having flared at his exertions when lifting Athos from the floor. He shook his head angrily as he replayed the events in his head, cursing himself for his clumsiness that had caused his mentor such pain when they’d ended up in a heap on the floor. Athos’ words had been stern but the Gascon didn’t think they’d contained any real heat, the lack of patience likely resulting from the fire that had erupted in his broken leg from the fall. If d’Artagnan was honest with himself, that wasn’t the real reason for his now troubled mind; in fact, his reasons were somewhat more selfish as the thought of spending the night alone made him consider a detour to a tavern rather than returning to his room at the garrison.

 

It had been comforting to know that his friend was nearby and d’Artagnan had felt safe in his presence. Even though he’d kept a candle lit throughout the night – ostensibly so that he could come to Athos’ aid if he was needed – he’d slept poorly and was usually awake before dawn, chafing for the morning light to dispel the darkness and chase away his fears.

 

He had little memory of what had transpired when he and Athos were trapped, especially of the night they’d spent underground, Aramis suggesting that he’d been too far gone at that point from blood loss and infection-induced fever, but each day’s setting sun brought a band of steel that gripped his heart tightly, causing his hands to tremble and his breaths to quicken. He’d been fortunate that Aramis and Porthos had been called away, for he was certain there was no way he could have kept the signs hidden from his friends. Athos, for his part, had been consumed by both boredom and pain, and d’Artagnan had been able to find excuses to leave his company and compose himself when things got too bad. Now that they would be spending time as a foursome, it would be harder to keep his friends from noticing and he promised himself that he would find a way to get a proper night’s rest that night, lest the deepening circles under his eyes betrayed his secret.

 

He was surprised to find himself already stepping through the garrison gates, nodding in greeting to the two Musketeers who guarded it that night. He knew that both Aramis and Porthos would be in their beds by now and he forced himself to follow the path to his room. As he opened the door, the darkness of the room reached out to him as though it was a living thing that wanted to trap him. d’Artagnan stumbled against the doorframe, his breathing quick and harsh as he revelled in the light from the hallway. A minute passed before he swung the door open fully, illuminating the space closest to the entrance. With a deep breath he lunged into the room, crossing the few steps to his table where he knew a candle sat, grabbing it and hastening back outside as quickly as he could. Leaning against the wall, head thrown back, he took several moments to calm his breathing before moving to one of the lanterns on the wall to light the candle in his hand.

 

He studiously ignored the way his hand shook as he lifted the candle to the flame of the lantern and then turned back to his room, sliding just inside the door and pulling it closed behind him. Using the dim candlelight, he found a second candle near his bed and promptly lit it as well, before falling to his knees in front of his chest where he kept his extra supplies. Moments later he had the lid propped open and was scrambling inside to find four new candles, all of which he lit in rapid succession, placing them around the room to dispel all of the shadows that lay there.

 

When he’d finished, he slumped down to sit on the edge of his bed, head hanging as he endeavored to calm himself. He stayed that way for several minutes until his racing heart had slowed and he scrubbed a trembling hand through his hair. Remembering his plan to get a proper night’s rest, he leaned forward to pull off his boots, shrugged out of his doublet and sagged sideways to lay on the bed. As his eyes closed, he prayed for a peaceful night, free from the nightmares that had plagued his sleep since their rescue.

* * *

Morning found d’Artagnan pressed into a corner of the room, his knees tucked into his chest with his arms encircling his legs. His eyes were wide as he forced himself to stay awake, unwilling to return to the darkness of his dreams. He’d fallen asleep twice and woken twice, each time finding himself sweat-covered and feeling panicked, his heart and breaths racing as his eyes darted about the candlelit room in search of some unseen danger. When the first rays of dawn appeared, the Gascon moved himself stiffly to regain his feet, stifling a moan as the motion pulled at his side. He crossed to a small table that sat underneath his window, pouring a measure of water from a pitcher into the basin so he could wash his face. As he looked up, his face still dripping, he could make out the light from the Captain’s office which sat across the courtyard from his room. Quickly grabbing a towel, he wiped the remaining moisture from his face and sat down to pull on his boots. He strode confidently from the room, his course of action becoming clear when he’d realized Treville was already awake. It took only a minute for him to make his way across the deserted courtyard, the hour too early for anyone else to be about. He knocked softly on the Captain’s door, grateful when he received permission to enter from within. Stepping across the threshold he presented himself to Treville, the older man looking up at him inquiringly from his desk.

 

“Good morning, Captain,” d’Artagnan greeted him.

 

“Good morning, d’Artagnan,” the Captain returned, one brow raised slightly.

 

Reading the signs correctly, the Gascon dipped his head slightly, a shy smile on his face. Lifting his eyes to meet the Captain’s the young man explained, “I know it’s early.” Treville’s brow climbed higher at the boy’s understatement. “Alright, it’s barely dawn, but I was wondering,” he trailed off for a moment. “I was _hoping_ you might have some use for me today.” The Captain leaned back in his chair, waiting for the young man to continue.

 

“Aramis and Porthos are back and Athos is able to use crutches to move around so there’s no need for me to stay with him anymore. My wound has healed well and I need to get out and do something.” Treville stayed silent, prompting d’Artagnan to continue. “The surgeon already released me to light duty and I thought, since we’ve been shorthanded, perhaps there was something that could keep me occupied for a few days.”

 

The Captain scrutinized the man in front of him, not missing the still pale features and the overall weariness that his stance conveyed, but he also recognized the pent-up energy that came from long periods of inactivity, something that would have been even harder to bear by someone like d’Artagnan who seemed to be perpetually in motion. Taking another moment to consider, Treville finally leaned forward, placing an arm on his desk, and picked up a stack of letters bound by string.

 

“Actually, I may have just the thing,” he stated. “I was summoned to the palace earlier by the Cardinal who needs these letters delivered to the Abbey at St. Remi. The majority of his regiment is ill and he’s adamant these must be delivered immediately.” Pausing, he watched as the boy’s eyes lit up. “It should be an easy three day’s ride out and I’m sure you’ll be invited to stay the night before heading back. Interested?”

 

The Gascon was nodding even before the Captain had finished speaking, the idea of being away for a week overwhelmingly appealing. He had a hand extended for the letters before he realized it and the Captain held onto them for a moment longer, “You’re certain you are fit to make the journey?”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted from the letters to the Captain’s face, seeing nothing but compassion there, and he nodded, answering softly, “Yes, I just need some time outside, away from the walls of the city.”

 

Treville inclined his head as he handed over the bundle he’d been holding. “Take care, d’Argagnan. Just because this is a simple mission doesn’t mean the roads are safe.”

 

The Gascon gave a smile of understanding as he gave a wave of his hand and turned to leave, Treville watching him go, hoping that the time away would provide whatever the young man was in search of.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he closed the door behind him, he found a sigh of relief escaping him and he hurried toward his room, intending to be asleep before any of his friends could return and discover him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been reading, commenting and leaving kudos. There was lots of speculation about what trouble d'Artagnan would find and how his friends would react to his absence. This next chapter should clear things up a bit; I hope you enjoy!

Aramis was already at their usual table when Porthos arrived, leading his horse with Athos sitting unhappily astride it. No man was happy to relinquish control of their horse and Athos was no exception, but it was part of the conditions he’d agreed to in exchange for his trip to the garrison. This way, he could focus solely on keeping his seat without using his injured leg and holding onto the crutches that lay across his lap. Aramis grinned at the pair when they passed through the gates and stood to hold the horse’s reins as Porthos helped Athos to the ground.

 

When the task had been accomplished, Aramis gave the horse off to the stable boy and he followed the pair to the table, where Porthos was lifting Athos’ leg onto the bench so it could remain elevated. As they doled out the food that awaited them, Aramis looked around the courtyard for their missing member. “Did d’Artagnan not accompany you?” he asked.

 

Athos shook his head as he swallowed a bite, “Sent him back to his room last night after you left.”

 

Aramis raised an eyebrow at Porthos who merely shrugged in return; apparently he knew nothing more than what Athos had just shared with them. “And how was your first night of freedom?” Aramis prompted.

 

Athos’ face softened as his lips quirked, “It was a welcome change to have some privacy.”

 

Both Porthos and Aramis knew how intensely private their friend was and were unsurprised that he’d welcomed the opportunity to spend some time alone. The question of their missing friend, however, remained.

 

As if Porthos had read Aramis’ thoughts, he suggested, “Maybe I should go check the boy’s room. It’s possible that after listening to Athos’ snoring the past week, he’s finally getting some proper rest.”

 

“In that case, it may be quite some time before he’s ready to join us,” Aramis chuckled.

 

Athos took the teasing in stride, relishing the warmth that came from being outside in the sunshine and sharing a meal with his friends. When they’d all finished, and there was still no sign of the Gascon, Aramis stood, announcing his intention to roust the boy from his bed. Porthos and Athos watched him go, happy to wait at the table. Athos turned to Porthos, “What are your orders today?”

 

Porthos raised a shoulder, “Not sure. The Captain didn’t seem to have anything for us when we got back last night. Suppose he’ll let us know if that’s changed.”

 

Athos offered a nod in return, part of him hopeful that his friends would have the luxury of staying at the garrison today so he might at least watch them train. He looked up as he saw Aramis striding purposefully down the stairs from the barracks, a confused look on his face. “He’s gone,” he stated, lifting his hat off his head with one hand so he could scrub the other through his curls.

 

Porthos stood and crossed to the stables, returning a minute later with news, “His horse is gone too. Apparently rode out first thing this morning.”

 

The three men’s eyes drifted to the second floor where the Captain’s office sat. Athos began to shift, intending to stand, but Aramis placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated. “Not with that leg, my friend, not yet.” He exchanged a glance with Porthos, the two deciding silently which of them would approach Treville, and with a nod, Aramis headed up the stairs while Porthos retook his seat next to the older man.

 

“He’ll be back shortly,” Porthos informed his friend.

 

Athos let out a frustrated sigh at his inability to follow Aramis, but made no further attempts to stand. Fortunately Aramis was quick and they saw him leave the Captain’s office minutes after he’d entered.

 

“He’s gone on a mission to the Abbey at St. Remi. Left this morning and won’t be back for a week.”

 

Porthos’ eyes widened at the news while Athos’ face lost all expression, a much more dangerous sign to those who knew him well.

 

“Athos, it’s not what you think,” Aramis interjected before the older man could jump to the wrong conclusion. “d’Artagnan asked the Captain for an opportunity to leave Paris for a bit. Something about not being needed here anymore and wanting something to relieve his boredom.”

 

Athos peered up at the man as he replied, “And do you believe that?”

 

Aramis looked helplessly to Porthos, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t further upset the older man, “Athos,” Porthos placed a hand on his friend’s thigh, “the boy’s been cooped up for over a week and I can’t imagine playing nursemaid to you would be all that pleasant.” Athos winced at his friend’s choice of words.

 

“It’s not unreasonable that he might want some time to himself,” Aramis added. “Besides, St. Remi is an easy ride and he’s only delivering some letters for the Cardinal. What could possibly happen?” Aramis grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth, seeing matching reactions from both his friends. “Sorry,” he murmured.

 

“Is he fit enough for this, Aramis?” Athos asked.

 

Aramis smiled, “I trust that the surgeon would have kept him confined to his rooms if there was any need for concern. He’s likely to be weary and sore from the ride, but nothing that a proper night’s rest can’t cure.”

 

The look on Athos’ face indicated his displeasure at the situation, but he recognized that it was not his place to dictate what the young man could and could not do. It was very possible, probable even, that after his confinement during his convalescence the Gascon was seeking something more interesting than sitting around at the garrison; although a part of Athos was surprised that the young man sought to be elsewhere rather than staying in the company of his brothers.

 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he realized that his two friends had also grown silent, perhaps entertaining similar thoughts. Deciding not to dwell on the situation, he elected to change the subject, “Have you received your orders for today?”

 

“Yes, we’re on parade at the palace this afternoon,” Aramis replied.

 

Porthos groaned, “Hope this heat lets up a bit or we’ll be droppin’ like flies.”

 

Athos empathized with his friends; parade duty was one of the less desirable assignments, requiring one to stand still for long periods of time, regardless of the temperatures, and offered little respite from the boredom of watching the nobles mingle with their Majesties. Again choosing to distract his friends, he suggested, “Then let’s enjoy our morning together until you need to go and you can see me back to my rooms later on your way to the palace.”

* * *

When he’d been given his assignment by the Captain, d’Artagnan had gone eagerly to pack for his trip, gathering a few extra items of clothing from his room before augmenting his supply of powder and balls for his pistol and collecting provisions from the kitchen. With his saddlebags duly filled, he mounted his horse and made his way out of Paris, the early morning making it relatively easy to navigate the normally-busy streets. Once he’d been riding for an hour, he found himself breathing easier, enjoying the freshness of the air which was untainted by the scent of unwashed bodies and chamber pots that had been emptied into the streets. As he scanned the road ahead of him, the occasional farmhouse and fields sown with spring crops brought a smile to his face, reminding him of simpler days when his responsibilities centred solely on the care of his father’s farm.

 

Another hour’s ride brought a sense of comfort that he hadn’t enjoyed since he and Athos had been trapped underground, releasing some of the tension that had stiffened his shoulders, finally allowing him to relax. By the third hour, d’Artagnan was confident in his decision to leave Paris. His only guilt stemmed from having left before speaking with his friends, but he was comfortable that Aramis and Porthos would be busy with their duties and that Athos would understand his need to be alone, having sought solitude often enough himself.

 

By the afternoon d’Artagnan’s eyes were heavy with sleep, his body reacting to the lack of proper rest he’d experienced in the past week. Seeing a tree in the distance that offered a respite from the heat of the day, the Gascon turned his horse off the road and dismounted, relaxing under its broad branches while he ate a late lunch. When he’d finished, he repacked his saddlebags and returned to lay at the base of the tree; within minutes he was fast asleep.

 

When he awoke with a start it was to find that little time had passed, his mind having moved to dream quickly and conjuring terrifying images of shadows that attacked in the dark. As d’Artagnan sat up, he wiped a hand over his face to remove the sweat that beaded there, disgusted to discover that his hand trembled. Swallowing thickly he focused on the sun and blue skies above him, attempting to dispel the lingering feelings of fear that still gripped him. Taking a last deep breath, he pushed himself angrily from the ground, frustrated that his nightmares had followed him, and returned to his horse. Perhaps, he reasoned with himself, he would sleep better that night if exhausted by the day’s ride. As a result, it was late into the evening before d’Artagnan was willing to stop, having pushed both himself and his mount longer than he should have, and feeling the effects in his sore muscles and aching side.

 

He was fortunate to come across a farmhouse whose residents welcomed him and offered a place indoors where he could sleep. Although they suggested a place inside their home, d’Artagnan demurred and stated he would stay in the barn with his horse, instead. The night was relatively warm and all the Gascon sought was a place where he might keep a lantern lit. He’d bedded down that night, placing his bedroll in the loft of the barn over top of some fresh hay, which softened the hard floor underneath his body. A lantern glowed beside him, casting eerie shadows across the space where he lay and, momentarily, he considered that he might be better off without it, a thought he dismissed almost immediately. His body was sore and incredibly tired and he rolled himself gratefully in his blanket, falling asleep within moments. That night he awoke three times, the last of which was accompanied by a hoarse shout as he ineffectually fought off the creatures from his dreams. Too afraid to close his eyes, and embarrassed that his yell may have been heard by the farm’s owners, d’Artagnan saddled his horse and packed his things, slipping inside the farmhouse to leave a few coins on the table in gratitude for the owners’ hospitality. When morning arrived, he’d already been riding for two hours.

 

He rode until he was in danger of falling off his horse because he’d drift off to sleep; at that point he dismounted and led his horse, content to walk as a way of both saving the horse and staying awake. By mid-day his feet had become heavy and he stumbled frequently, no longer able to walk in a straight line as his surroundings moved in and out of focus. With a sigh, he found a place to stop and had a few bites of food before laying back and letting his fatigue overcome him. His exhaustion kept the nightmares at bay for a couple hours at which point his mind again turned to the scattered memories of his time belowground, producing twisted images and random fears that had the young man sitting up, grasping his chest as he heaved desperately for breath. He pulled his legs close and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his head dropped to his hands. He could feel his pulse racing and the residual adrenaline rushing through his veins as his body still encouraged him to run from the danger his mind had envisioned. Scrubbing a shaky hand across his face and hair, the Gascon cursed his weakness at having let the cave-in affect him so. When he’d recovered enough to stand, he moved unsteadily to his horse, again gathering the reins and choosing to walk until the lingering sensations of his nightmares dissipated.

 

That night he found an inn and used his small supply of coins to take a room, passing over an additional piece of silver to have extra candles brought to the room. When he could no longer stay awake, he made sure every candle in the room was lit and wrapped the thin blanket tightly around himself before laying on the bed. He had no illusions that his rest would be peaceful, nor that he could manage to remain awake through the night; resigned, he lay on his side, curled tightly into himself, and closed his eyes, already dreading the nightmares that awaited him. The first time he woke he didn’t even bother getting up from the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso as his eyes shifted around the brightly-lit room. He kept his eyes open for as long as possible before they closed of their own accord and he was once again swept into a dark world of fearsome creatures. This time Athos was there and d’Artagnan came awake with a cry as he was unable to save his friend from being killed by whatever haunted his dreams. It was too much and a sob escaped him, as he shivered with the realism of the nightmare, almost believing that his mentor had actually died. He was unaware of the tears that leaked from his eyes as he tried to recall images of his friend, whole and healthy, to disperse the last vestiges of his dream. When dawn arrived it was a gaunt and hollow-eyed d’Artagnan who left without breakfast and steered his horse in the direction of St. Remi.

 

He arrived at the Abbey in early afternoon and was welcomed warmly, passing over the letters he carried and being directed to a room where he could spend the night. d’Artagnan had done his best to converse with the friendly Abbott but the many nights of stress-filled, restless sleep had caught up to him and it was all he could do to speak the minimum required pleasantries before gratefully hiding himself away in the room he’d been given. Although he had no intention of sleeping, he also found himself somewhat at loose ends, wanting his horse to rest for the trip back and not feeling enough energy to either go for a walk or spend time in conversation with the others at the Abbey. The room he’d been given was simple in its furnishing, containing nothing more than a small bed and a table that held a wash basin, but on the mattress he found a worn bible. Sighing, he sat on the bed and settled himself against the wall at his back, allowing the book to fall open and letting his eyes scan the words. After many minutes, he realized that he was still staring at the same page, not having absorbed anything that was written there, his thoughts having drifted back to the nightmares he’d been experiencing. It frustrated him to no end that he could never identify what tormented him in his dreams, not having enough clear memories of his time belowground to be able to make sense of the images that assaulted him when his eyes closed. Huffing, he allowed the book in his hands to fall closed, placing it beside him on the mattress as he crossed his arms and allowed his head to fall back against the wall, forcing himself to think again about what he’d experienced.

 

He knew that he’d felt threatened that night and that the inky blackness that surrounded them had been frightening enough on its own. At some point he recalled trying to wake Athos, but he’d been unable to, sending another spike of fear and worry through the young man’s heart. He recalled clearly the overwhelming need to remain awake to protect his friend, but every time he tried to recall the threat, his memories failed him. He knocked his head against the wall behind him, growing ever more frustrated with his inability to make sense of what had happened to him, the key locked somewhere in his fractured mind. Closing his eyes he forced himself to sift through the images of that night, which unfortunately were precious few, especially once the tarp had been laid over the opening above them, taking with it the last of their light. With his eyes closed, his mind started to drift and his awareness soon dimmed, waffling in a state between consciousness and sleep. As his concentration lessened, he was startled by a sensation of something at his side, bringing with it an intense pain that had him sitting upright abruptly to bring a hand to his flank. His brow furrowing in confusion, he quickly unlaced his doublet and pulled up his shirt to look at the still healing wound, but could see no reason for the pain he’d just felt. As he examined the reddened skin, pressing at it with his fingers, he realized that the pain had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, making him wonder if he’d imagined it. In that moment clarity struck and he realized that the pain was a memory of the night he’d spend underground; finally he had some clue of what had occurred and a partial explanation for his current anxiety. The thought brought a small smile to the man’s lips as he allowed his shirt to drop; perhaps he would be able to work through things after all.   

 

Despite his best efforts, no additional memories surfaced during his time away from the garrison, although he did manage to sleep in 2-3 hour stretches each night before being woken by the intensity of his dreams. The candlelight that perpetually burned during his sleeping hours did little to keep the nightmares at bay, but at least made recovering from them a little easier when he didn’t open his eyes to blackness. When he arrived back in Paris six days later, he felt no more himself than he had when he’d left, but he resolved to put on a brave face in front of his friends, not wanting them to worry or fuss over him.

 

As the garrison gates appeared in the evening light, he found himself dreading his return, knowing that his friends would be expecting an explanation for his sudden disappearance. He found himself wishing for their absence, hoping that they’d been sent on a mission while he’d been away so that he might delay their impending interrogation. He slipped through the gates quietly, gratified to see the courtyard empty, the hour too late for training, leaving most of the men to seek food, drink and company elsewhere. He dismounted gingerly from his horse, still wary of his healing side which would flare occasionally in pain if he moved or turned too quickly. Passing the reins of his horse to the stable boy, he strode directly up the stairs to Treville’s office, hoping to report quickly and then retire to his room before his friends became aware of his presence. A short rap of his knuckles on the door had him entering and presenting himself in front of the Captain.

 

Treville leaned back in his chair, appraising the young man in front of him, decidedly unhappy at what he saw. “Welcome back, d’Artagnan. Everything went well?”

 

“Yes, Captain, I delivered the letters and the road between Paris and St. Remi was quiet,” the Gascon responded, already turning to leave.

 

The Captain stood, halting the young man’s departure as he moved around the desk and collected brandy and two glasses from his cabinet. Placing the glasses on his desk, he poured as he spoke, “And the trip provided the outlet you were seeking?” Handing a glass to the young man, he sipped from his own as he waited expectantly for an answer.

 

Taking a sip from his glass, d’Artagnan replied, “It was good to be away from the city, sir.”

 

“Hmm,” Treville hummed at the noncommittal response. “Athos, Porthos and Aramis seemed surprised that you had left.” He left the statement hanging, waiting to see how the young man would respond.

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head shyly, a small grin tugging at his lips, “I’m not certain they would have been happy with my decision. Plus, the hour was so early, I didn’t want to disturb them. I’m sure that you assured them of my safe return?”

 

The Captain nodded, “In the future, I’ll trust that you’ll have your affairs in order before undertaking a mission of this sort.” Treville’s tone was neutral but left no doubt of his dissatisfaction at having been the one to inform the young man’s friends of his departure.

 

“Of course, sir,” d’Artagnan agreed. Draining his glass, he replaced it on the Captain’s desk, intending to leave.

 

“One more thing,” the Captain stopped him again, “I believe you’ll find them all at Aramis’ rooms. Something about Athos not having enough furniture for all of them to be comfortable.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” the Gascon replied, this time successfully disengaging himself from the Captain and exiting the office.

 

As he closed the door behind him, he found a sigh of relief escaping him and he hurried toward his room, intending to be asleep before any of his friends could return and discover him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although it was the middle of the night and his body begged for rest, he had no inclination to close his eyes again and relive the terrible images that consistently plagued him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems to be lots of concern about d'Artagnan and his stubbornness about trying to deal with things on his own - can't say this chapter will alleviate any of those concerns...yet. Hope you enjoy!

As had become his routine, d’Artagnan was up and dressed early, sitting in the courtyard cleaning his sword when Aramis and Porthos, escorting a mounted Athos, arrived. Although he didn’t look up, the Gascon knew immediately when he’d been spotted, Aramis striding directly over while Porthos helped Athos dismount. Knowing he could not delay the inevitable, the young man plastered a broad smile on his face as he looked up from his blade and greeted his friends, “Good morning.”

 

Aramis stood for several seconds, inspecting the man in front of him, before he replied, “Welcome back. How was your journey?”

 

d’Artagnan shrugged noncommittally, “Quiet and uneventful. Was nice to get away for a few days.”

 

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed as Porthos and Athos joined him, the latter sitting down across from the Gascon as Porthos arranged his crutches nearby. “When did you return?”

 

“Last night,” the young man answered, looking down again to run his cloth over the length of his blade.

 

Porthos’ eyes narrowed at his answer. “Didn’t the Captain tell you we were at Aramis’?”

 

“He did,” d’Artagnan allowed, “but I was tired and went straight to bed.” Deciding to go on the offensive rather than waiting for the others to continue, the young man looked at Athos, asking, “How is your leg healing?”

 

“Slowly,” Athos answered dryly, clearly unimpressed with the amount of time needed for his broken bones to fuse.

 

Aramis crossed his arms, not willing to let the young man change distract them, “And your side?”

 

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan answered, turning his head back to the sword in his hands.

 

Porthos and Aramis sat and several long seconds passed before the Gascon lifted his head, feeling the stares of his friends on him. “What?” he asked.

 

“You left without tellin’ us,” Porthos stated, his tone kind but his look challenging the young man to disagree.

 

d’Artagnan offered another slight shrug, “It was early and I didn’t want to wake you. I knew the Captain would fill you in and it was an easy mission – nothing to worry about.”

 

“Haven’t we taught you by now that there is no such thing as an easy mission?” Athos scolded, although there was no real heat in his words.

 

The young man ducked his head in embarrassment as he tried to explain, “You know what I mean. I was only delivering some letters that had no importance attached to them, and the road between Paris and St. Remi is quiet, almost boring really, if you think about it.”

 

“Regardless, it was reckless of you to request the mission while you were still not fully recovered,” Athos countered.

 

d'Artagnan gave a short nod of acknowledgement, understanding that the matter would not be dropped until he agreed. "So, what are the plans for today?” he asked, again trying to change the subject.

 

Athos exchanged looks with his other two friends, and Aramis responded, “First, I will have a look at your side while Porthos gets breakfast.” The larger man was already moving as Aramis shifted closer to the Gascon, reaching for the laces of his doublet.

 

Sighing, d’Artagnan swatted the medic’s hand away, “Stop being so grabby, I can do it myself.” Putting his words to action, he unlaced and removed his doublet, pulling his shirt up to give Aramis access to his side.

 

Under Athos’ watchful eyes, Aramis poked and prodded at the healing wound, finally sitting up with a nod. Turning to the older man, he declared, “It’s healing well.” Then, turning to face the Gascon again, he continued, “But I’d hazard it’s still sore and causes you some trouble when you move the wrong way.”

 

The intensity of Athos’ gaze had the young man nodding, and Aramis smiled at the fact that their young friend had been truthful with them. Clapping a hand to the boy’s upper arm, he said, “Nothing time won’t heal at this point, and nothing to be concerned about.”

 

d’Artagnan smiled gratefully, suggesting, “So, sword practice after breakfast?”

 

Aramis and Athos exchanged looks before the former answered, “I think some time with a harquebus is in order and then you can practice your positions this afternoon. Let’s leave sparring for a few more days.”

 

The young man wasn’t thrilled with Aramis’ answer but knew that he wouldn’t be allowed to return to full duty without his friend’s blessing so, with a rueful smile, he nodded. Porthos rejoined them, carrying a tray of food which he placed in the centre of the table before sitting down and beginning to eat. Aramis and Athos followed suit and had taken their first mouthfuls before it became apparent that d’Artagnan wasn’t planning to eat.

 

Porthos motioned at the tray with his head, “Why aren’t you eating?”

 

The young man bent his head to his task of polishing his sword as he answered, “Already ate before you got here.”

 

The three Musketeers traded looks over the young man’s bent head, but none of them had any evidence to the contrary. Having missed the earlier conversation, Porthos asked between bites, “What’s the plan for today?”

 

“Aramis will help d’Artagnan refine his shooting skills this morning and then we will work with him on his form this afternoon,” Athos replied.

 

The Gascon stood, sheathing his sword, “I’ll go get what we need from the armory while you finish.”

 

The three men watched as their youngest member walked away and as soon as he was out of earshot, Athos turned to Aramis, “Is he really alright?”

 

Aramis shrugged, “His wound is healing well, but he seems… _off_.”

 

“What do you mean, off?” Porthos questioned.

 

“He just spent the week away on what was, by anyone’s definition, an easy mission; yet he still seems fatigued, if those dark circles under his eyes are any indication, and I could almost count his ribs,” Aramis explained his concerns.

 

“Do you believe he lied about this past week?” Athos persisted.

 

“It’s hard to say, but I don’t think it would be remiss on our part to keep a closer eye on our young friend now that he’s back,” Aramis suggested.

 

Nodding in agreement, the men finished their breakfast while they waited for the Gascon to return, at which point Aramis stood and spent the next two hours fine-tuning the young man’s skills in both loading and discharging his harquebus. Athos had remained at the table, enjoying the opportunity to watch as the young man’s skills sharpened under Aramis’ expert instruction, while Porthos took the opportunity to spar with some of the other Musketeers.

 

It was close to mid-day when the four men reconvened at the table, Porthos wiping his neck and face with his kerchief, which he’d wet before sitting down, and Aramis and d’Artagnan cleaning the weapons they’d used earlier. “How did he do?” Porthos asked of Aramis, having been busy with his own practice.

 

Aramis dipped his head as he continued cleaning. “His shooting was _adequate_ ,” he replied, mirth in his eyes as he watched for the young man’s reaction.

 

As expected, d’Artagnan’s head shot up at the comment, a look of indignation on his face. Before he could retort, Athos stepped in, “I believe he hit all of his targets and even managed once to best Aramis’ shot.”

 

Porthos snorted as d’Artagnan’s face lit up at the unexpected praise, while Aramis’ hand flew to his heart in mock outrage, “Athos, you wound me. Besides, I’m not sure that shot should count; you know that was when Mademoiselle Cossett arrived to get Serge’s order.” Everyone at the garrison was familiar with Mademoiselle Cossett, a lovely young maiden with golden hair and fine features, and the daughter of the man who supplied Serge with fruit and vegetables for his kitchen. She would appear at the garrison every other day to collect Serge’s order, which would then be delivered the following day. Treville had made it clear that the girl was off limits, but that didn’t stop the men from admiring her countenance.

 

Athos’ lips quirked slightly as he pointed out, “I hardly think the enemy would make allowances for your distractions, therefore it counts.”

 

The older man’s deadpan delivery only made the statement more humorous and drew laughs from Porthos and d’Artagnan, with even Aramis grinning in defeat. “Very well, I admit that I was distracted, _allowing_ our young Gascon to best me once.”

 

Rolling his eyes at Aramis’ phrasing of his admission, d’Artagnan stood and collected both harquebuses, “I’ll go return to these to the armoury.”

 

While he was away, Serge arrived at their table with a platter of food for the men. Porthos nodded at him appreciatively, knowing that the man had gone to extra effort over the past weeks to ensure that meals had been delivered to Athos while he’d been confined to his bed. Reaching for a plate, he looked up at Serge, “Thanks for feeding d’Artagnan this morning.”

 

A look of confusion crossed Serge’s face, “d’Artagnan? I haven’t seen the boy in over a week.”

 

“You must be mistaken. He returned last night and had already eaten this morning when we arrived,” Athos corrected the man.

 

Serge shook his head, “No mistake. He didn’t come by last night or this mornin’.” He shrugged, “Not sure where he got his meals, but it wasn’t from my kitchen.” As he retreated, the three friends shared a concerned look.

 

“Maybe he went into the city for something?” Porthos offered.

 

“Perhaps,” Aramis allowed, but none of the men looked overly convinced. d’Artagnan approached their table, retaking his seat, noticing after several moments that his friends were all staring at him.

 

“What?” he asked, eyes drifting from one man’s face to the next.

 

None of the men replied as Porthos pushed the platter of food towards the young man, “Here, you must have worked up quite an appetite this morning.” The larger man’s gaze stayed on the Gascon as he watched the boy load his plate and take his first few bites. Satisfied, he returned his attention to his own meal.

 

Catching his mentor’s eye, d’Artagnan asked, "How long before you’re able to put weight on that leg?”

 

Athos glanced at Aramis, daring the man to correct him as he answered, “Another week should be sufficient.”

 

Aramis smiled sweetly back at Athos as he added, “Another week before he can lose one of the crutches and then another two to three of light duty while he rebuilds the strength in that leg. It’ll be at least a month before he’s back on active duty.”

 

Athos looked like he might disagree, but knew well that the Captain would take Aramis’ opinions about his health more seriously than his own and he would need both men’s blessings before he’d be allowed to return to his duties. Sighing, he gave a dip of his head in acknowledgement of Aramis’ words.

 

“Do you think we’ll be kept at the garrison until you’re fit?” the Gascon questioned, already hoping there would be additional opportunities to escape his brothers’ prying eyes, lest they discover his difficulties enduring the nighttime hours.

 

Porthos shrugged in response, “Depends what comes up. If we’re needed the Captain will call on us regardless now that Athos can take care of ‘imself.”

 

The Gascon nodded, already making plans to approach Treville about the possibility of another solitary mission once he was away from the company of his friends. The rest of their meal passed pleasantly as Porthos and Aramis carried the conversation with stories of some of their more outlandish conquests. The only discomfort came from d’Artagnan when he managed to clear only half his plate and received a harsh look from Athos as a result. Lifting his hands in supplication, the young man protested, “I had a large breakfast and I don’t want to be too full to practice this afternoon.”

 

Again, the three friends allowed it, committing to ensure that their young friend ate a large supper that night. After lunch, Porthos and Aramis sparred with various members of the regiment, honing their abilities with their blades, while Athos coached d’Artagnan on his positions, offering minor corrections as he moved from one stance to the next. It was far from the young man’s favorite pastime, lacking the thrill and adrenaline that accompanied matching swords with a skilled opponent, but he recognized the importance of the moves he was mastering; in the heat of battle there was little time for coherent thought, his body falling intuitively into the moves learned through hours of diligent practice.

 

When they’d finished, d’Artagnan was sweating from the precision and muscle control required, surprised to find his limbs trembling with fatigue and sore from the lack of stretching he’d undertaken over the previous weeks since their accident. Gratefully he fell onto the bench next to Athos, pouring himself a cup of water from the pitcher that sat on the table and draining its contents in a few quick gulps. Replacing the empty cup on the table, he wiped a sleeve across his brow, still breathing heavily from exertion.

 

“Your form is improving,” Athos complimented him, d’Artagnan merely nodding in reply. “You’ll want to spend some additional time stretching, if your lunges were any indication.” The Gascon winced, recognizing that his lunges had been less than impressive, his stride having shortened as his flexibility diminished.

 

Porthos and Aramis joined them, sheathing their swords after besting their respective opponents, sitting across from their two friends. Pouring drinks for them both, Porthos drank and then looked up at the sun moving across the sky, “Time for us to clean up and get Athos back?”

 

Aramis gave a nod of agreement, “A fine idea, I think. You’ll help him back while the boy and I collect dinner?” So agreed, the three men quickly cleaned up from their exertions before parting ways, only to meet up again later at Athos’ lodgings.

 

Their evening passed agreeably although d’Artagnan protested the amount of food being forced on him by his friends, choosing to match Porthos drink for drink instead in the hopes that his sleep might be more peaceful for the effects of the wine. Recognizing that the young man seemed troubled, the three friends permitted it, watching over him carefully until he passed out, settling him on the bed next to Athos once he’d fallen unconscious. As the candles burned down, the three men considered their youngest member.

 

“Think it’s because of the accident?” Porthos asked from where he lounged in his chair across from Athos’ bed.

 

Aramis pursed his lips and shrugged, taking a moment to sip from his glass before replying, “It’s quite possible although I wish we knew more of what happened down there.” His gaze moved to Athos who sat up in bed, a hand laying on the young man’s shoulder.

The older man’s face held a mix of fondness for his protégé as well as a touch of dismay at having very little memory of what had happened while they were trapped. “I fear there’s little I can add. I don’t remember much of anything beyond d’Artagnan’s efforts to free me followed by waking up in the infirmary.”

 

“Did he speak of it during the week we were away?” Aramis asked.

 

Athos shook his head, “Not a word. He seemed… _unwilling_ to talk about anything more than the most mundane of topics. I admit I may have done the boy a disservice, still struggling with the pain in my leg and happy for the periods of silence to read and be alone with my thoughts.”

 

His two friends nodded in understanding, recognizing that the week of confinement would have been difficult in and of itself, but combined with the need to have someone sharing his space, it would have been especially challenging for someone like Athos.

 

“Do not blame yourself, my friend. I’m confident in our Gascon’s ability to keep his own counsel and if he wasn’t willing to say anything, there’s little you could have done to convince him,” Aramis assured.

 

“Maybe his tongue would loosen after a few drinks?” Porthos suggested, glancing again at the sleeping man.

 

Aramis shrugged, “It’s possible however his drinking tonight seemed somewhat more…” He trailed off, unable to find the right word.

 

“Desperate,” Athos interjected quietly. Aramis and Porthos nodded in agreement with the word Athos had supplied. The young man had seemed keen to escape something - something of which his friends were unaware – and the normally exuberant and talkative young man had fallen quiet and morose as one drink quickly followed the last.

 

Draining his glass, Aramis pushed himself from his chair, “Will you be alright with him tonight?”

 

Athos nodded as Porthos followed Aramis’ lead, also preparing to leave. “I’ll be back for you in the morning?” Porthos offered, garnering another head nod from the older man.

 

The two bid their friend good night, ensuring the partially-emptied bottle of wine was next to the bed along with the man’s crutches. As Athos considered the thick, red liquid in his glass, he drew comfort from the regular rise and fall of the young man’s chest and wondered again what had affected his protégé so deeply that he’d tried to drink himself into oblivion.

* * *

It was nearly pitch black in the room when Athos was startled awake by the murmurings and panicked motions of the man beside him. Carefully, Athos rolled to face the young man, waiting for his eyes to adjust in the dim light cast by the moon outside his window. As his sight improved, he could see the young man’s face screwed up in pain and covered with a sheen of sweat. His head occasionally tossed and his hands twitched as sounds of despair were pulled from the young man’s lips. Frowning at the sight of his protégé’s distress, Athos placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, speaking softly to either comfort or wake him from the nightmare that gripped him. As he squeezed the Gascon’s shoulder, the young man flailed, pulling himself away from the touch with an anguished sob. Before he realized what was about to happen, d’Artagnan had rolled away from Athos, thumping into the wall beside the bed, bringing the young man upright to cast wild eyes around the room.

 

Athos was shocked at the intense reaction, and pitched his voice lowly to calm the young man who now panted and trembled against the wall. “d’Artagnan, you’re alright now. It was just a bad dream.” The words seemed to have little effect and Athos could see the boy’s eyes darting around the room as the moonlight glinted off of them. Hardening his tone, Athos tried again, “d’Artagnan, you’re safe. Calm yourself.”

 

This time Athos saw the boy’s gaze turn to his own and he waited several seconds before recognition seemed to dawn in the Gascon’s eyes. Taking a gulping breath, d’Artagnan pulled his legs inward, resting his elbows on his knees as his hands cradled his head. Athos could hear the boy struggling to slow his breathing and he ached to comfort him, but he didn’t dare touch the young man for fear that it might have the opposite effect. After several minutes, d’Artagnan seemed to have recovered and Athos tried again, “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The Gascon lifted his face at his mentor’s words and Athos was taken aback by the look of helplessness and despair reflected in the boy’s eyes. Inhaling deeply, the young man mumbled, “I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.” With those words, he stretched his legs out and pulled himself off the end of the bed. Athos watched as he stumbled around the room to gather his boots and doublet, before replacing his weapons at his hips.

 

“Where are you going?” Athos queried.

 

“Back to my room,” d’Artagnan responded, scrubbing a hand across his face.

 

“It’s the middle of the night and you drank quite heavily. It would be quite irresponsible of me to allow you to wander the streets when you’re still suffering the effects.”

 

This drew a small smile from the young man, the moonlight illuminating the white of his teeth, “I’ll be fine Athos, and you need your rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“d’Arganan,” Athos tried a last time, “I would sleep better knowing that you are safe.”

 

That seemed to make the Gascon hesitate for a moment and Athos held his breath as the young man considered before shaking his head, “I’ll be fine Athos. Get some sleep. Good night.”

 

Athos watched the boy walk out, closing the door firmly behind him, and he released the breath he’d been holding while he’d waited to see if d’Artagnan would change his mind. The situation was troubling and Athos knew sleep would likely be difficult now as his mind tried to make sense of what had just happened. Nightmares weren’t unusual for a soldier and all four of them had experienced their fair share, but never had one of their group reacted as strongly as d’Artagnan just had. Whatever the boy had dreamt about had clearly unsettled him, badly, and the fact that he preferred to return to his own room in the middle of the night suggested that the boy expected his sleep to be disturbed again. If the situation was this severe it would eventually reach a state where it would put the boy and others in danger, an outcome that Athos was unwilling to allow. Resolving to speak with Aramis and Porthos about what had happened in the morning, he tried to get comfortable, willing his mind to still and his eyes to close so he might get a few more hours sleep before morning arrived.

* * *

d’Artagnan was grateful that Athos hadn’t argued more strongly for him to stay and was especially glad that the older man wasn’t able to physically follow him out into the Paris night. He knew it was a cowardly thought, but he’d barely managed to keep the nausea at bay while he’d dressed and bid Athos good night, and he now stumbled to the nearest wall where he was violently ill. He knew that the wine he’d consumed the previous evening did him no favours, but the intensity of his dreams often had him purging his stomach; it was the real reason for his lack of appetite, since it was difficult to enjoy a meal when you expected to be expelling it later.

 

Once he was certain his stomach had finished, he pushed himself away from the wall where he’d braced himself and began walking slowly back toward the garrison. Although it was the middle of the night and his body begged for rest, he had no inclination to close his eyes again and relive the terrible images that consistently plagued him. He knew that Athos would be concerned and by the morning he would have shared the night’s events with their friends; he groaned to himself about the questions he would have to face at their morning meal. He knew that he should be grateful for their concern, but he was too miserable right now to view their actions as anything other than unwelcome meddling.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes!” the voice in d’Artagnan’s head screamed, wanting so badly to unburden himself and find a way to simply sleep again, unafraid of the images that haunted him, but his statement earlier had been true; they all suffered their share of bad dreams and they all coped – this time would be no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting on this story. Warning, men and discussions of feelings ahead!

As he’d predicted there was no more rest for him that night and d’Artagnan spent the remaining hours of darkness repairing some items of clothing that required attention, and then turned to clean his pistol, all of which was completed in full candle-light that illuminated even the deepest shadows of his room. When dawn arrived, he’d dressed in a fresh shirt, his boots and doublet, and headed out into the city, not prepared to face his friends quite yet. He reasoned that if he went to purchase fresh pastries for them, the time it required to complete the task would delay the inevitable questioning, as well as giving him a reason to decline breakfast. His stomach was still swimming from the previous night’s drinking and he knew that, if forced to eat, he would be ill again; this way he could beg off, stating that he’d already eaten after purchasing food for his friends.

 

Intentionally, he selected a bakery that was quite far from the garrison and took his time as he wove his way through the wakening Parisian streets. By the time he was approaching the garrison gates, he was confident that his friends would already be sitting at their usual table, and his first glimpse of the courtyard as he entered confirmed his suspicions. Plastering a sunny smile on his face he forced an energy that he didn’t feel into his heavy limbs, straightening his back as he crossed the distance between them. As he approached the table, he held up the bundle of pastries, trying to distract them from scrutinizing him too closely.

 

“I brought breakfast,” he announced cheerily, placing the bundle on the table. Remaining standing, he waited for the friends to help themselves and he scanned the walkway outside of Treville’s office.

 

“Didn’t expect you to be quite so lively this morning given how much you drank last night,” Porthos stated, an easy grin on his face.

 

The Gascon grinned shyly in return, ducking his head momentarily, “I may not have your fortitude for drink but I do seem to recover from its effects far more easily than some of my elders.”

 

Porthos guffawed at the boy’s dig while Aramis smiled, but a quick glance in Athos’ direction told him that the older man was not amused, nor did he believe the young man’s words. Deciding that a swift exit was in order, he grabbed one of the extra patries and motioned to the Captain’s office, “Can’t hurt to bring one for Treville; maybe he’ll take it easy on me the next time I’m in trouble.”

 

Without waiting for a response from his friends, he threw himself into motion, climbing the stairs to the second level quickly and knocking at the Captain’s door, praying the man was there.

 

“Enter,” a voice called from within.

 

With a sigh of relief, d’Artagnan pushed his shoulder against the door and entered, holding up the pastry at Treville’s inquiring look. “Thought you might enjoy this more than last night’s hard bread,” d’Artagnan explained.

 

The Captain raised a brow but accepted the offering with a nod of thanks. When the Gascon made no move to leave, Treville leaned back in his chair expectantly. Several moments later his patience was rewarded. “Aramis says that Athos will stay off rotation for another few weeks.” d’Artagnan paused and bit his lip, uncertain of how to proceed. “Do you have any need of me to complete another mission?” he finally asked.

 

Breaking the pastry in half, Treville picked at it, popping a chunk into his mouth, thinking as he chewed. As far as he could tell, the boy looked no better than the last time he’d reported and, if anything, the bags under his eyes had deepened rather than receded. Everything in the young man’s stance spoke of intense discomfort, the enthusiasm he tried to convey overdone, belying his true feelings under the false veneer of happiness. It was clear that whatever had been troubling the young Gascon, troubled him still and Treville was uncertain that more time away would solve anything. Swallowing he replied, “Perhaps, but I won’t know for a day or two.” The young man’s face visibly fell at the answer, even though Treville could see the boy fighting to remain neutral and unaffected. “In the meantime, Aramis and Porthos are still fit and, if you are as well,” the Captain raised an eyebrow at the young man who nodded in agreement, “then I have a missive that needs to be delivered to Limours. If you leave now, you should be able to make it there and back by tonight.” He reached for the folded parchment and extended his hand to d’Artagnan, waiting for the young man to take it.

 

Hesitantly, the Gascon reached for the missive, eyes cast downward as he seemed to be examining the floor. Raising his eyes to meet the Captain’s, he suggested, “Perhaps I should stay here while Aramis and Porthos deliver this. I can’t imagine that three men are needed to accomplish this task.” The look of hope on the boy’s face almost had Treville changing his mind, but the fact that he was now looking for a reason to remain at the garrison, when he’d just been looking to leave, caused him to stand firm.

 

Shaking his head, the Captain replied, “You have your orders. Dismissed.” With that, he looked back down at the papers at his desk, leaving the young man no further opportunity to try and persuade him.

 

The Gascon left the Captain’s office, pausing outside to collect himself, needing to reattach his mask of indifference before descending the stairs to share their orders with the others. Athos looked up at his arrival, a smile tugging at his lips, “Was the Captain suitably impressed with your offering?”

 

d’Artagnan returned the smile, “Maybe too impressed. We have a mission,” he said, holding up the parchment he held, “missive to Limours. We leave immediately and return tonight.”

 

Aramis sighed ruefully, “So much for dinner with the lovely Madame Payseur. I do so hate disappointing her.”

 

Porthos snorted, clapping a hand on the man’s back, “I’m sure you’ll make it up to her next time.”

Aramis merely smiled and gathered his hat as he stood. “Athos, you stay off that leg and get someone to help you back to your room. Since I’ve been robbed of the lovely lady’s company, I’ll be by later to check that you haven’t overexerted yourself.”

 

Porthos grabbed the last of his breakfast as he followed Aramis to the stables, leaving Athos and d’Artagnan alone. The Gascon made to follow the other two, but Athos stopped him, “How are you this morning?”

 

“Fine,” the young man replied quickly with another smile.

 

“Did you manage any more sleep last night?” Athos continued.

 

“Of course,” d’Artagnan responded, attempting to leave again.

 

“d’Artagnan, your nightmare seemed quite intense. Is there anything you’d like to share with me?”

 

Athos looked meaningfully at the boy, willing him to be honest, and could see the hesitation before he shook his head. “No, there’s nothing. I’d better get going before they leave without me.” With a last forced smile, d’Artagnan moved away from the older man to join his friends in the stable.

 

Athos sighed in frustration. Clearly, the boy had been dishonest and looking for a reason to avoid a conversation with his friends. The three had been surprised to find the young man approaching them through the garrison gates earlier, having believed he was still in bed, catching up on the sleep he’d missed as a result of the previous evening’s dreams. The boy’s absence had given Athos an opportunity to relate the events of the previous night, and he knew that Aramis and Porthos would use their time on the road to dig deeper into whatever was affecting the young man so deeply. He scrubbed a hand across his face, not looking forward to a day of boredom without his friends, especially irritated at the knowledge that he would have to leave the investigation into d’Artagnan’s behaviour to his other two brothers. 

* * *

Had the situation been different, d’Artagnan would have actually been impressed with his friends’ patience, having waited nearly two hours before they brought up the previous evening’s drinking and his subsequent nightmare, having heard the story from Athos that morning. The Gascon pushed down his irritation at being questioned about his disturbed sleep, reminding himself that the two men did so only because they cared; still, he didn’t want to lie to them and yet he was completely unprepared to share with them the details of his bad dreams.

 

Lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, he said, “You know how it is; we all have bad dreams from time to time.”

 

On his right, Porthos narrowed his eyes at the comment, “Have you had this particular dream before?”

 

Another partial shrug was the Gascon’s only response. On his left, Aramis spoke, “Is that why you drank so heavily, so you wouldn’t dream?”

 

“ _Yes!_ ” the voice in d’Artagnan’s head screamed, wanting so badly to unburden himself and find a way to simply sleep again, unafraid of the images that haunted him, but his statement earlier had been true; they all suffered their share of bad dreams and they all coped – this time would be no different. “Thought I’d take a page out of Athos’ book,” he smiled ruefully, hoping his friends would let the matter drop. Instead, it seemed to have the opposite effect as both men’s faces hardened.

 

“Even Athos would tell you not to follow his example,” Aramis murmured, reaching across to squeeze the young man’s arm.

 

“Yeah, he’d want you to find a different way – a better way – of coping with things. Like talkin’ with your friends about what’s troubling you,” Porthos counseled.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes darted to Porthos’ face and the compassion he found there had him choking momentarily for air, struck by the deep sincerity of the man’s words. He swallowed thickly and offered a short nod, “Maybe I will,” he mumbled, not meeting either man’s gaze, “when I’m ready.” He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, no longer able to maintain the facade that everything was alright and equally unable to continue the conversation with his friends. When he’d increased the distance between them to several hundred feet, he slowed again and allowed his horse to walk, his body trembling with the lack of food and sleep he’d endured for so long that he could no longer remember when he’d last eaten or rested properly, his emotions raging to the point that his belly churned.

 

Aramis and Porthos were startled by the young man’s reaction, but allowed him the space he’d created between them. Porthos cast a concerned look in his friend’s direction, “That’s not normal, especially for the boy. Something’s got him rattled, but good.”

 

Aramis nodded, fretting not only about this latest development but also about the boy’s gaunt features and the dark bruising that seemed to have taken up residence beneath both eyes, “Fortunately, the day is still young and we have many more hours ahead of us to pry the truth from him.”

 

“Good thing we don’t give up easily,” Porthos offered a small grin, which he was gladdened to see returned before both men’s faces turned serious again, their gazes returning to the young man ahead of them.

 

They rode in this fashion for almost an hour before the two men gradually closed ranks again with their young friend. d’Artagnan sighed unhappily when he realized what was happening, but had no means of distancing himself unless he wanted things to escalate. To his surprise, Aramis and Porthos avoided the topic of their earlier conversation, focusing on more mundane things that had the young man relaxing in his saddle. By the time they reached Limours, he felt calmer than he had in weeks and welcomed the opportunity to stop and eat before their return journey to Paris.

 

The tavern in Limours was small but the food was relatively good and the wine was sweet. Unlike the previous night, d’Artagnan only sipped from his glass and ate a small amount of stew, dipping the hard bread into its juices to soften it. He knew that his friends were aware of his poor appetite, but hoped they would blame it on the wine he’d overindulged in. When they’d finished their meal, Aramis dropped a few coins into the barmaid’s hands, gracing her with one of his beguiling smiles that had the girl blushing all the way to the roots of her chestnut hair. Rolling his eyes, Porthos grabbed his friend’s bicep, dragging him outside where d’Artagnan already waited with the horses. Seeing the dual mischievous grins on the men’s faces, the Gascon raised a questioning eyebrow.

 

“Had the poor barmaid swooning,” Porthos explained, releasing his friend’s arm.

 

Aramis’ grin widened, “It’s not my fault that I’m irresistible.”

 

The comment had both men chuckling as they mounted their horses and turned towards Paris. It was well past dusk when they entered the garrison courtyard, weary from their hours spent in the saddle, but relaxed as well from the accomplishment that came from completing their task and the hours they’d enjoyed in each other’s company. Porthos and Aramis had let the matter of d’Artagnan’s nightmares drop, deciding on an alternative strategy which they were quick to enact upon their return.

 

As they dismounted and handed their horses off to the stable boy, Porthos and Aramis flanked the young man so he couldn’t escape them. As they chivvied him back through the gates and into the Parisian streets, the Gascon’s head swivelled from one man’s face to the other’s. “Where are we going?” he asked.

 

“To Athos’ lodgings, of course,” Aramis replied, his tone suggesting that it was obvious.

 

“But I’m tired and thought I’d just head to my room,” as he spoke, the young man tried to turn around so he could head back toward the garrison, but Porthos clasped a hand firmly around his upper arm, dragging him along.

 

“Athos will want to know that you’re alright,” Porthos explained.

 

“And, we can get dinner from that tavern in the Rue d’Anjou. You know, the one that has that dish you like so much with the potatoes, mushrooms and leeks, “Aramis continued.

 

Attempting to flee again, d’Artagnan protested, “I’m really not that hungry.”

 

“Rubbish,” Porthos exclaimed, tightening the grip on the young man’s arm so he had no choice but to follow.

 

Sensing that this was an argument he was destined to lose, the Gascon resigned himself to accompanying the two men first to the tavern and then to Athos’ rooms, by which point his mouth was watering from the scent of the food they carried. They knocked only as a courtesy, pushing the door open without waiting for a reply, unsurprised to see Athos sitting at his table reading, his leg propped on a second chair. When the men entered, he closed his book and placed it on the table, a small smile gracing his lips at their safe return.

 

“Hope you’re hungry,” Porthos stated, placing his portion of the food on the table. The other two followed suit, Aramis moving to retrieve four glasses from the cupboard before pouring out the wine.

 

“How was your journey?” Athos asked, his gaze lingering on Aramis and Porthos for a second or two, trying to ascertain whether they’d had any luck with their young friend.

 

The two men gave nothing away as Aramis answered, “Uneventful and Porthos didn’t even allow me the pleasure of the young lady’s company at the tavern where we ate.”

 

Porthos snorted, “We had to get back by tonight.”

 

d'Artagnan chuckled at the look of mock outrage on Aramis’ face as he unconsciously spooned another bite of food into his mouth, Athos eyeing him with a satisfied look on his face. The meal proceeded in this fashion and the Gascon was surprised to find that he’d cleared his entire plate, chased down by two glasses of the rich wine Aramis had selected. With his belly full and his body warm and relaxed, his eyes began to droop. The action did not go unnoticed by his three friends who softened their voices but continued their comforting banter, Porthos snagging the glass from the young man’s hand as his eyes closed for good.

 

“Finally,” Porthos breathed out.

 

Athos nodded and encompassed both men in his gaze, “What did you discern?”

 

Aramis shook his head sadly, “Not much from him, I’m afraid. He was completely unwilling to tell us anything, but from the look of him, I’d say he hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly for a while now.”

 

Porthos chimed in, “It’s good that he fell asleep here. We’ll stay and keep an eye on him tonight so he can’t make a run for it when the nightmares start.” Exchanging a determined look with his friends, he said, “One way or the other, we’re gonna get to the bottom of this tonight.”

 

The three men continued to enjoy their wine, their eyes shifting to their youngest at every twitch, waiting for the tell-tale signs that his dreams had begun. The Gascon slept peacefully for almost an hour before the occasional spasm of his fingers turned more forceful, and the three could see the boy’s eyes moving rapidly beneath his closed lids. Next came a low moan, which had Aramis sitting up in anticipation of waking him from his sleep, but Athos’ shook his head, wanting to see if it would pass. d’Artagnan’s head rolled against the wall behind him and his face pinched with pain, a whimper escaping his throat as his nightmare intensified. Unwilling to let the boy suffer further, Aramis leaned forward to wake him when, with a short cry, the boy’s eyes flew open and his head came forward, forcing the sharpshooter to pull back sharply to avoid being hit.

 

For several seconds, the three men watched as d’Artagnan’s eyes blinked rapidly, his hands clenched as he took quick, shuddering breaths. It was obvious when the Gascon returned to his senses, his eyes dropping and face coloring red with embarrassment at being the centre of the men’s attention. When he’d composed himself sufficiently, the young man lifted his head, mumbling, “Sorry, bad dream.”

 

Porthos reached a hand across to the boy’s shoulder, slowing rubbing at the tense muscles that felt like cords of steel beneath his fingertips. Athos caught d’Artagnan’s gaze with his, infusing his voice with all the affection he held for the young man as he asked, “d’Artagnan, what’s going on?”

 

The Gascon’s eyes darted between his friends’ faces, surprised to see no signs of judgement or disappointment. “It’s nothing,” he replied quietly, returning his gaze to his lap.

 

“This is clearly not nothing,” Aramis countered. “You’ve obviously not slept properly for several days and if you get any skinnier, we’ll have to put rocks in your boots so you’re not swept away by a strong gust of wind.”

 

The Gascon remained silent, although they could see him biting his lip as though considering Aramis’ words and he’d made no attempt to remove Porthos’ hand from his shoulder. Athos reached forward and took the boy’s still fisted hand in his, prying the fingers apart to hold it tightly as he uttered a solitary word, “Please.”

 

d’Artagnan looked up at the man’s plea, seeing the same depth of despair in his mentor’s eyes as when he’d spoken of his deceased brother. The realization had his breath sticking in his throat as he struggled to stammer an explanation. “The tunnel…when we were trapped,” he trailed off, taking a steadying breath, Athos squeezing his hand in reassurance. “I…I’m back there every night, fighting something.” He raised his eyes to Athos’, the look desolation there making the older man curse his own infirmity which prevented him from moving to sit next to the boy. “I can never tell what it is, but something’s attacking me…us….and sometimes you die.” The young man stopped again as he choked back a sob, and his friends could see tears welling in his eyes.

 

Shaking his head, d’Artagnan gulped a large breath of air, “I can’t protect you and I can’t see what’s happening because there’s no light.” His jaw clamped shut at those words, and the three men could see his throat bobbing wildly as he swallowed repeatedly, his face suddenly slick with sweat. Aramis reacted immediately, moving to grab the chamber pot which he deposited in d’Artagnan’s lap just in time as the young man bent forward to empty his stomach. Athos leaned back, allowing his protégé to brace himself with both hands while Porthos’ hand moved to rub circles on the young man’s back.

 

When he’d finished, Aramis took the chamber pot from him, placing it outside the door, before returning to kneel in front of their miserable friend. “Is this how it usually happens?” he asked, voice full of compassion.

 

The Gascon nodded. “Usually after I’ve woken up from…one of the bad ones,” he replied, eyes glancing at Athos; _one of the ones where Athos dies_.

 

“Lad,” Porthos pulled the young man sideways against him, “surely you can see that you can’t go on this way?”

 

d’Artagnan swallowed before answering, “I know, I just can’t seem to get them to stop. I thought things would get better…” He trailed off, scrubbing a hand across his face in frustration. “I though with some time away, I would find my balance.”

 

Aramis tilted his head in understanding, “It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?”

 

The Gascon grimaced as he nodded. “Clearly, drinking yourself into a stupor isn’t the answer,” Athos drawled. “You’re no good at cards and there are more than enough cuckold husbands in Paris already,” d’Artagnan smiled at his mentor’s words as the older man’s lips quirked in return. “So, we’ll need to find another way to deal with this.”

 

“Right,” Porthos clapped the young man’s back lightly, “Do you want to stay here tonight or in your room?”

 

“What?” the boy’s head shot up.

 

“My preference is here, there’s more space than at yours, but if you’d be more comfortable there, I’m sure we can manage,” Porthos explained.

 

His statement made no more sense to d’Artagnan than his previous question had and, at the boy’s continued look of confusion, Aramis pitched in, “We’ll be staying with you tonight so you can get some proper rest.”

 

A horrified expression crossed the young man’s face, “No, Aramis, there’s no need for that. I’ll just head back to my room…”

 

Porthos snorted, interrupting the boy’s words, “You really think that’s gonna happen?” d’Artagnan looked at the men’s faces, seeing the resolve in their eyes and his shoulders slumped in resignation. The larger man knocked his shoulder, asking again softly, “Here or your room?”

 

The Gascon glanced at his mentor’s face and saw the combination of concern and weariness there and he knew that he couldn’t risk staying and disturbing the man’s sleep, no matter how much he might want to. “My room,” he answered.

 

“Good,” Aramis clapped his hands as the decision was made. “Then I think it’s time we were off since our other patient needs some rest as well,” he looked pointedly at Athos not having missed the air of tiredness that seemed to now be hanging off the man like a cloak.

 

The three men quickly gathered their things, Porthos leading d’Artagnan outside, Aramis following behind them. “Aramis,” Athos called before his friend could leave.

 

The medic simply smiled and nodded at the older man, “We’ll take good care of him, Athos, and we’ll try to convince him to stay here tomorrow instead. Good night.” Donning his hat, he followed his friends outside, closing the door firmly behind him. Athos shook his head in fond amusement at how well his friend knew him; he was fatigued but would have rested far better with the young man still beneath his roof, regardless of the dreams that might disturb them that night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Duke of Normandy is sending someone to Louviers with papers for the King.” At Athos’ raised eyebrow, the Captain sighed, “He doesn’t want Musketeers to be seen inside Rouen but apparently doesn’t want his messenger too far from home either; Louviers was the compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was happy to hear from many you about the last chapter and am thrilled that folks enjoyed it. We're roughly about half-way through our story. Hope you like this next one!

Porthos accompanied d’Artagnan back to his room, leaving no opportunity for the young man shake off his determined ward. Aramis detoured briefly to his own lodgings, gathering a selection of herbs into a small pouch which he slid into his doublet. When he entered the young man’s room, he found the two friends engaged in a game of cards, which they quickly finished upon his arrival. Pulling the small pouch from his doublet, Aramis explained, “I brought some herbs which can be made into a sleeping draught.” Aramis raised a hand to forestall the young man’s argument and continued, “Nothing too powerful that you can’t be woken, but enough that it may provide some respite from your nightmares.”

 

The two men waited with baited breath as the Gascon bit his lower lip in thought. Finally, he replied, “You’re certain I’ll be able to wake?”

 

“I promise you,” Aramis confirmed. At the young man’s nod, Aramis gathered a cup and a small supply of water, crumbling the herbs between his fingertips before adding them to the cup and allowing them to sit for several minutes. When he was satisfied, he passed the cup to their young friend who looked at them hesitantly.

 

“We’ll be with you all night and will wake you if you start to dream,” Porthos assured him. Lifting the cup in a mock toast, d’Artagnan tossed back the contents, grimacing at the bitter taste.

 

“Now, off to bed with you before that takes effect,” Aramis stated, motioning to the young man’s bed. d’Artagnan complied and removed his boots and doublet, choosing to stay in his shirt and breeches in deference to his friends’ presence in the room.

 

“No need to be shy in front of us lad,” Porthos teased him, but the Gascon merely rolled his eyes and laid down.

 

Several seconds passed before he lifted his head to look at his two friends, “Leave the candles lit.” Aramis and Porthos both nodded, unsurprised at the request. “And, thank you, for this. You don’t need to, and I know you won’t leave, so thank you.” With that, the Gascon laid back down and rolled to his side, turning away from the two men.

 

Porthos and Aramis settled themselves, Aramis taking the first watch as he sat in his chair, polishing his dagger, while Porthos found a spot on the floor, leaning his back against the bed and letting his head drift back to lay on the mattress. Four hours had passed in relative peace, the silence broken only by Porthos’ snores. Aramis had long since put his weapons away and had picked up a book that he recognized as belonging to Athos, and which the older man must have loaned to the Gascon. Allowing it to fall closed, he rubbed at his gritty eyes, knowing that it was time to change places with his friend. As he stood, his ears picked up the first sounds of distress from the young man, who still lay with his back to the rest of the room. He crossed the few feet that separated them, softening his steps in the hope that the boy would settle and continue to sleep. Once he was next to the bed, he leaned forward, getting a look at d’Artagnan’s face, and hearing how the boy’s inhales quickened as his suffering grew. True to his word, Aramis placed a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder, pitching his voice low as he called to the young man to wake. “d’Artagnan, wake up.” The boy twitched in reply, seemingly startled by the touch on his shoulder, but remained asleep. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis shook him gently, “you are safe. Wake now and see for yourself.”

 

The Gascon came awake with a start, his eyes darting around the room as he sought to identify his surroundings. Aramis tugged gently at the boy’s shoulder, encouraging him to roll further onto his back and placed himself into the young man’s line of sight. d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted to his friend and Aramis saw recognition spark there, quickly turning to embarrassment as he realized what had happened.

 

Grasping the boy’s chin as he tried to turn away, Aramis tutted, “None of that now. We have all relied on the strength of our brothers to deal with the horrors we’ve endured. Would you really deny us the opportunity to do the same for you?”

 

d’Artagnan’s head turned back toward his friend, seeing nothing but sincerity and empathy in the medic’s features. Rolling over the rest of the way, he propped himself up on one hand, intending to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit, but Aramis’ hand stayed the action as he motioned to the still sleeping man on the floor.

 

Giving a nod of understanding, d’Artagnan shifted back down to lay on his back, eyes staring up at the ceiling above him. Aramis placed a hand on his upper arm as he asked, “Would you like to tell me about it?”

 

A one-sided shrug answered him and the Gascon huffed, “Not much to tell.” Scrubbing a hand across his face, it was easy to see the young man’s frustration, “I wish I could remember what happened, but it’s like my brain is stuck, just repeating the same images over and over again.” Aramis remained quiet, hoping that the silence would encourage the boy to continue. “All I have are glimpses and….feelings. It’s dark and I need to protect us…protect Athos. I don’t know what from but it always comes from the dark, teeth and claws ripping…” d’Artagnan trailed off, swallowing thickly at having to relive the nightmare. A full minute passed in silence as the Gascon did his best to compose himself, and when he spoke again, it sounded more like a sob than speech, “I feel like I’m going mad.”

 

Aramis sat on the bed, pulling the young man into his arms, noting as he did so that Porthos’ eyes were open and the large man was also moving to join them on the bed. Wordlessly, Porthos pulled the Gascon’s legs over the side of the bed, and inserted himself on the boy’s other side, cocooning the young man between the two men’s bodies. d’Artagnan shuddered now with the sobs and hitched breathing that racked his thin frame, his head hanging to rest against Aramis’ shoulder as the medic whispered words of comfort into his ear. They stayed like that for several minutes until the two Musketeers could feel the boy’s body begin to relax as the sobs quieted and then stopped completely. When the Gascon lifted his head from Aramis’ shoulder, the two friends released their hold but remained close, ensuring their young friend knew that he was safe.

 

“I’m alright now,” d’Artagnan sniffed, “I’m sorry for all this.”

 

Porthos moved a hand to the young man’s neck, grasping the nape gently as he replied, “Nothing to be sorry for. Crying on a brother’s shoulder is almost a rite of passage for a Musketeer.”

 

Aramis nodded in agreement, “Just like your first stitched wound.”

 

“Or your first time getting shot,” Porthos continued.

 

“Or the first time you get yelled at by Treville,” Aramis gave a mock shudder, as the friends watched the Gascon’s features lighten at their teasing.

 

“And one thing you can count on through all of those is that we’ll be there with you,” Porthos finished with a small grin.

 

Nodding with a small grin of his own, d’Artagnan said the only thing he could, “thank you.” His friends smiled widely and Porthos’ hand moved to ruffle his hair, causing the Gascon to half-heartedly move his head away, but smiling instead.

 

“Now that that’s settled, I believe it’s time for more sleep,” Aramis stated, looking at the darkness outside. “It is, after all, still the middle of the night.”

 

“Right,” Porthos agreed as he stood. “My turn to sit watch.”

 

“You don’t have to Porthos, I don’t think I can go back to sleep again,” d’Artagnan confessed.

 

“Rubbish,” Porthos exclaimed, motioning to Aramis who was removing his boots. “Aramis will be joinin’ you now to keep the dreams at bay. He’s a might cuddly,” he added with a mischievous grin, “but you’ll never sleep better than with a brother at your side.”

 

The look of dread on the Gascon’s face told the men everything they needed to know and they pointedly ignored the boy’s discomfort as Aramis scooted him over and laid next to him, Porthos laying the blanket over both their bodies. Aramis could feel his friend’s stiffness as he intentionally moved closer, wrapping an arm across his chest. Leaning forward he whispered into the young man’s ear, “Rest, d’Artagnan, we will watch over you.”

 

The Gascon’s eyes drifted to Porthos who still stood beside the bed and, at the larger man’s nod, he did his best to relax and closed his eyes, focusing on his brother’s touch to ground him. Porthos shared a smile with Aramis before the medic closed his eyes as well, and the larger man moved to take the spot in the vacated chair. No matter how badly the boy might resist, he would not be allowed to suffer alone. 

* * *

Over the next few weeks, the four friends established a routine, ensuring that the Gascon was never alone during the nighttime hours, with Aramis preparing the weak sleeping draught each night before they retired, just in case the nightmares got too bad and the brew was needed to lull the boy back to sleep. As the days progressed, the Gascon continued to improve, his sleep disturbed less often and the dreams themselves seemingly less severe. With the improved sleep, the boy’s appetite returned and the three men pressed food on the boy almost constantly, focused on regaining the muscle that had been lost during the weeks prior.

 

Athos was also healing, now moving about without the need for crutches, and slowly strengthening his leg under Aramis’ careful watch. Everyone knew that the older man would push himself too hard, too quickly, and his friends took it upon themselves to ensure that he didn’t inadvertently reinjure his leg and set himself back. Two months after the accident, Aramis pronounced Athos fit for duty, a proclamation that was met with relief from Treville at having his best soldier back, and joy from his fellow brothers at not having to face the prospect of completing missions without him.

 

Although his leg had healed, Athos still limped occasionally at the end of a long day or first thing in the morning, needing a few minutes to work the stiffness and dull ache from the muscles that had been damaged when the bones broke. Conscious of this, but also aware that Athos was chafing at the long periods of inactivity which had marked his recovery, the Captain decided on an easy mission for the four to regain their footing. Standing outside his office and looking down into the courtyard, he could see the men sitting around their usual table, their expressions bright with the easy banter they shared while they cleaned their weapons. As he watched, a loud guffaw erupted from Porthos and the large man clapped d’Artagnan heartily on the back, apparently in appreciation for something the boy had said. The Gascon and Aramis both joined in his laughter and Treville could see a smile ghosting across his lieutenant’s face as well, his eyes crinkling in amusement at his friends’ humour.

 

The Captain was heartened to see the four enjoying themselves, knowing well that the weeks following the cave-in had been difficult. He remained unaware of the details, but it had not gone unnoticed that the four seemed to be rotating through each other’s lodgings, spending evenings together in each other’s company, forsaking their usual nightly pursuits. The darkness that had seemed to have taken hold of d’Artagnan was gone as well, and the young man had made no further inquiries about solitary missions, having joined his other two friends on theirs instead while Athos recovered and assisted with the training of new recruits. Drawing a deep breath, he called down to the men, indicating to his office with a flick of his hand before moving back inside to wait for them. He could hear the heavy footfalls on the stairs outside as the men ascended and in moments he had four men standing attentively in front of him, awaiting their orders.

 

“The Duke of Normandy is sending someone to Louviers with papers for the King.” At Athos’ raised eyebrow, the Captain sighed, “He doesn’t want Musketeers to be seen inside Rouen but apparently doesn’t want his messenger too far from home either; Louviers was the compromise. His man may be there as early as four days from now or it could take him up to a week.” Pulling a purse from a desk drawer, Treville placed it on the table. “You can take rooms at the local inn while you wait and most importantly,” he hardened his gaze, “stay out of trouble.” Athos nodded and reached for the purse, his three friends already turning to leave as the Captain said, “I’ll expect you back in no more than 10 days.”

 

The four men stopped outside Treville’s office, looking to their leader for direction. “There’s still plenty of daylight left so we’ll start out today. Go pack what you need and meet back at the stables in an hour.” As the three moved to obey their orders, Athos breathed deeply, satisfaction with their orders already settling some of the restlessness he’d felt earlier at having been confined to the garrison for so long. He recognized that they’d been assigned a simple task, but was more than happy for the opportunity to be away for a while. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen the smile on the Musketeer’s face as he descended the stairs, feeling lighter with the anticipation of the mission that lay ahead of them.

* * *

The road between Paris and Louviers was a pleasant one and the weather still temperate, given that it only just past the middle of the summer. The four men took their time, having a generous schedule within which to complete the journey. They spent two nights camping under the stars, the evenings being comfortably warm and d’Artagnan’s demons sufficiently quieted by the presence of his brothers to forgo the need for candlelight while he slept. On their third day they arrived in the town of Louviers and were gladdened to find two rooms available at the local inn, run by an elderly couple who introduced themselves as Monsieur and Madame Brazeau; as such, the men were surprised when they were accosted by a young boy who looked about ten.

 

“Are you Musketeers?” the boy asked, eyes wide as he stared at their swords and pauldrons.

 

Raising an eyebrow, Athos replied, “We are. I am Athos and this is Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan.”

 

The boy’s gaze travelled from one man to the next, a look of awe on his face as he took in Porthos’ broad stature, the jaunty tip of Aramis’ hat complete with feather, and then moving on to land on the Gascon. Stepping forward in front of the young man, he pointed to d’Artagnan’s sword, “Can I touch it?”

 

The three men smirked, but d’Artagnan smiled easily at the boy, crouching down so he was level with the child. “I think it would be prudent of us to ask your parent’s permission first. Are they around?”

 

The boy’s face unexpectedly fell and the innkeeper’s wife stepped forward from where she and her husband had been watching the exchange, “As his grandmother, I’m happy to give permission.” The boy’s face lit up again and his hand was already reaching for the sword as she continued, “But only if this fine Musketeer supervises and you are careful.”

 

The Gascon gave her a broad grin and a nod before rising to his feet to draw his sword from its sheath. Pointing to a bench in front of the inn, d’Artagnan walked the boy over and sat him down, placing the sword carefully across his lap. Aramis looked at their young friend fondly as he spoke, “Our young friend has a gift with children.” Turning to the owners of the inn, he asked, “Where are the boy’s parents?”

 

The woman wrung her hands while her husband put an arm around her shoulders in support as he answered, “His mother died in childbirth and his father, our son, was taken 3 years ago by a fever. Phillipe was only 5.”

 

His wife took up the story, explaining, “He is all we have left of our son, and we are all he has as well.”

 

Aramis dipped his head, “My condolences on your loss. From the look of the boy, you’re doing a fine job with him.”

 

Madame Brazeau smiled at the praise while her husband nodded his thanks. Turning to the entrance to the inn, he said, “Let me show you to your rooms.” The three men nodded, having already passed their horses to the stable boy, and they followed the innkeeper inside. As they entered, Athos caught d’Artagnan’s eye and motioned toward the door. Giving a short nod of understanding, the Gascon reached for his sword, replacing it in its sheath and following his friends through the doorway, the young boy at his heels.

 

The innkeeper led them through the common room where they could get their meals and up the stairs to the second floor. He opened two doors, directly across from one another, and the men took a quick look inside to find that each contained a large bed, along with a small cupboard and a table and chairs. The men exchanged glances and wordlessly, Aramis and Porthos entered the room on the left side of the hallway, while d’Artagnan followed Athos into the one on the right. Turning back to the door, Athos told the innkeeper, “Thank you, these will do nicely.” With a nod, the man left and Athos tried to close the door as d’Artagnan deposited his weapons belt on the bed and then took a seat at the table.

 

Noting the still open door, the Gascon looked inquiringly at his mentor. Athos pulled the door open fully revealing Phillipe’s expectant gaze. The boy’s hopeful look had the young man grinning and he stood from his seat to place a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Do you know much about horses?” he asked. At Phillip’s nod d’Artagnan steered the boy back through the door and, as Athos watched them leave, he could just hear the young man’s words, “Then you can help me check on ours. My mare likes a good brushing after a ride and it’s never a good idea to get on your horse’s bad side.”

 

As the words trailed away, Athos shook his head in amusement at how quickly the child had attached himself to his protégé. He knew that d’Artagnan was unaware of his effect, but the boy had a natural sincerity and charm that attracted people to him like flies to honey. No doubt Phillipe would keep d’Artagnan occupied for the rest of the afternoon so Athos left his room and opened the door to his friends’ room where he found Porthos playing with a deck of cards while Aramis washed his hands and face. Both looked up at the older man’s entrance and Athos shrugged in reply to their unspoken question, “d’Artagnan has been pulled away by the young lad and there seemed little point staying in the other room by myself.”

 

Porthos grinned as he teased the other man, “I thought you liked being by yourself?”

 

With a completely neutral face, Athos drawled, “Only when I’m enjoying some of the finer vintages of wine which I don’t want to share.”

 

This drew smiles from both men, knowing fully that Athos had a generous spirit and shared freely of anything he had with his brothers. Having finished with his hands and face, Aramis clapped Athos on the back, “Then let’s see what Monsieur Brazeau stocks in his cellar. I’m sure you must be parched after our morning on the road.” Putting words into action, the three secured their weapons once again and headed down to the common room in search of food and drink.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of the men felt like eating and they soon found themselves cocooned on the floor in a nest of pillows and blankets, bodies pressing against each other in a desperate bid to find comfort in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to all the folks who are spending their time folliwng this story and who have chosen to leave a comment with their thoughts - much appreciated! Not sure if there's a tissue warning available, but this chapter may need one...

Two days passed peacefully, the Musketeers doing some light sparring in between helping with minor repairs around the inn; Monsieur Brazeau was handy but not nearly as young and strong as he used to be and had been unable to fix everything that needed attention. Phillipe had become their constant shadow, admiring the men as they practiced their swordwork and fetching tools and materials when the four worked on the inn. Mealtimes found the young boy as their steadfast companion, with Madame Brazeau often shooing him away so the men could have some peace, but a gentle smile from d’Artagnan had her staying her words as the child slid closer to sit at the Musketeer’s side.

 

Porthos looked at the two young men with an amused grin. “What’s your plan for the afternoon?” he asked, guessing that d’Artagnan had some idea of how to entertain the child whose company he seemed to truly enjoy.

 

“I thought a ride might be nice and then Phillipe can help me check and clean the tack,” the Gascon replied, looking at the child to find him nodding in agreement. “And what about you?”

 

The three men exchanged looks, Porthos shrugging, “Guess I’ll go check out the tavern and see if there’s a card game I can join.”

 

“And we’ll accompany him to make sure he stays out of trouble,” Aramis added.

 

“Meet back here for dinner or at the tavern?” d’Artagnan queried.

 

“Check here first and find us at the tavern if we haven’t returned,” Athos suggested.

 

So decided, the men finished their meal and parted ways, d’Artagnan and Phillipe heading for the stable while the other three left for the tavern. The Gascon had guided Phillipe in the proper saddling of his horse, practiced hands making short work of the task and ensuring that everything was done properly, keeping both riders and horse safe and comfortable. Their ride took them into the fields outside of town and Phillipe was thrilled when d’Artagnan dismounted, allowing the boy to stay in the saddle while the Musketeer coached him on his riding skills. When they returned, Phillipe helped with the horse’s care and enthusiastically fed the mare an apple that d’Artagnan had secured earlier. By the time they entered the inn, it was time for the evening meal and Phillipe trailed behind the Musketeer as he spoke with Madame Brazeau who informed him that his friends had not yet returned.

 

Turning to the boy, d’Artagnan knelt in front of him as he explained, “I won’t be able to have dinner with you tonight. My friends are at the tavern and I promised I would join them there.” The boy’s face openly showed his disappointment so the Gascon assured him, “We will have time again tomorrow. Perhaps you can use the time tonight to decide what we can do?”

 

The boy nodded, wrapping his arms around d’Artagnan in a quick hug before he ran off to find his grandmother. The Gascon chuckled to himself as he stood and exited to find his friends. When he entered the dimly-lit tavern, he found the three men near the back, Athos and Aramis sitting at a table with a bottle of wine sitting on the table between them, while Porthos sat with another small group of men engaged in a game of cards. When they saw him come in, Aramis waved him over and pushed a chair out with one foot, and they could hear Porthos collecting his winnings in preparation to leave the card game.

 

d’Artagnan sat down, leaning back in the chair with his legs outstretched in front of him. “How was your day?”

 

“If the grin on Porthos’ face is anything to go by,” Aramis said as he looked up the man who’d just joined them, “I’d have to say it was lucrative.”

 

Porthos chuckled at the comment as he sat down, placing his full purse on the table. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice as he stated, “They’re not very good here. I didn’t even need to cheat.”

 

“Then you’ll be happy to share your good fortune with us,” Athos declared as he motioned to a barmaid to bring food to the table. Porthos made a sound of protest, but when their food arrived, he happily dipped into his purse to pay for the meal.

 

“How did you spend the day,” Aramis asked the Gascon between mouthfuls of stew.

 

d’Artagnan shrugged and smiled, “We went for a bit of a ride and then I worked with Phillipe on his riding skills. He really is getting quite good for someone his age.”

 

“He has an excellent teacher,” Athos praised, the young man ducking his head as his face warmed at his mentor’s words.

 

Seeing the boy’s flushed face, Porthos drew the attention away from him, “Any idea when the messenger will be here?”

 

Athos shook his head, “Treville said only that he would arrive sometime between four and seven days; that gives us another two at the outside, possibly three if we decide to wait an extra day and hurry our return trip.”

 

Porthos sighed at the news and looked around at the half-empty tavern, “Not sure I can find a way to keep myself occupied for two more days. Might need to start a fight with someone, just to entertain myself.”

 

Aramis nodded. They all knew that the life of a soldier involved far more time spent waiting than anyone could possibly imagine, a task that was doubly difficult for men of action. Their conversation was interrupted by shouting in the street outside and the four took only a moment before Athos stood to stride toward the tavern door, his three friends falling into place behind him. When they emerged, they were passed by people running and Porthos grabbed a man by his shirt collar, forcing him to stop. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked.

 

The man looked at him with fear, pointing to billowing black smoke that was barely visibly against the darkening sky. “Fire! Over at the inn. We’re all headin’ over to help.”

 

At the man’s words, Porthos released him, his three friends already running toward the inn with d’Artagnan in the lead. When they arrived, they could see a line of people stretching from the inn’s well to the front of the building, buckets being passed from one person to the next to either douse water on the flames or to be refilled again once they’d been emptied. The Musketeers unstrapped their weapons, dropping them into a pile with their doublets, the heat from the burning building already bringing sweat to their faces. They joined the line, d’Artagnan scanning the faces of the people around him for the Brazeaus. His eyes finally found the couple standing well away from the fire, Monsieur Brazeau’s arm around the shoulders of his sobbing wife. He watched them for several seconds, his brain telling him that something was amiss, but not recognizing what it was. As he passed another full bucket to the person standing next to him, his mind finally supplied the answer that had eluded him. He’d thought initially that Madame Brazeau was upset because of the loss of their inn, but what if it was something more, something that was more precious than a collection of wood and bricks and nowhere as easily replaced? He ducked out of the water line and ran to the couple, grasping the older woman’s shoulders as he beseeched, “Where is Phillipe?”

 

The woman’s eyes flickered to the burning building and the Gascon couldn’t help but follow her gaze, staring at the flames for several seconds before turning back around to face the elderly couple. “He’s inside?” he asked, horrified at the thought that the young child might be trapped somewhere inside.

 

Monsieur Brazeau could only manage a nod, swallowing heavily as he choked on his emotions.

 

“Where?” d’Artagnan asked. The old man merely shook his head, having no information to share, pulling his wife into a hug as she was racked again with sobs.

 

d’Artagnan shifted his gaze to find his friends and spotted Athos helping to refill empty buckets, while Aramis and Porthos were part of the group throwing water at the flames. He made eye contact with Athos for a moment and knew in that instant that he could not allow Phillipe to perish. With a nod to his mentor, the young man turned and ran at the doorway, throwing an arm up to protect his face as he dashed inside.

 

“No!” Athos yelled as he saw his protégé run toward the blaze, throwing down the empty bucket in his hands and leaving his spot immediately to follow. The shout got both Aramis’ and Porthos’ attention and they looked from Athos to the inn, catching a glimpse of the young man as he disappeared inside. They moved in unison to intercept Athos, Porthos grabbing him and holding him bodily to prevent the older man from going inside.

 

“Let me go,” Athos growled, still struggling fiercely.

 

Aramis placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he tried to cut through the haze of adrenaline and fear which now overrode the man’s common sense. “Athos! Athos, calm yourself. You cannot go inside.”

 

His struggles finally ceasing, the older man slumped against Porthos’ chest. “d’Artagnan…” he said, his voice broken.

 

“I know, we saw ‘im too. There’s nothin’ we can do but wait for him to find his way out,” Porthos murmured to his distraught friend.

 

“Let’s at least give him a fighting chance and help put out this fire,” Aramis suggested, already tugging at the two men to move them back into the water line. Athos nodded numbly, his eyes fixed on the opening that marked the front door of the inn, praying that his protégé’s impetuousness hadn’t just gotten him killed.

* * *

d’Artagnan’s lungs seized up almost immediately upon entering, his eyes watering as he squinted in vain through the heavy smoke that hung in the air. “Phillipe!” he called, coughing as his lungs protested the foulness that was drawn into his chest as he inhaled. He brought his arm up, pressing it to his mouth and endeavoring to prevent some of the noxious smoke from entering his lungs by breathing through the thin fabric of his sleeve. By memory he made his way inside, passing into the common room and turning around slowly, desperately looking for any sign of the child. “Phillipe!” he shouted again, noting how much worse his voice was sounding and worrying that the boy would be unable to hear him over the roar over the fire as it consumed everything in its path. He crossed the room and was about to enter the kitchen when a small movement from the corner caught his attention. There a child-sized shape hunched on the floor, pressing back against the meager protection offered where the two walls met, and one of the few places in the room that remained untouched by flames.

 

Had he had the breath to spare d’Artagnan would have sighed in relief, but as it was he simply put his head down and darted across the room, manoeuvering carefully around the spots where the ceiling above him burned and was in danger of collapsing on his head. He dropped quickly to his haunches in front of the boy, placing his hands on the child’s arms as he examined him for signs of injury. “Phillipe,” he croaked, pausing to cough, “are you alright?”

 

The young boy looked at him with wide, red eyes, obviously having been crying, likely from a combination of fear and the smoky atmosphere that surrounded them. He gave a short nod before launching himself from the corner, throwing his arms around the Musketeer’s neck, nearly overbalancing the young man. Dipping his head down so his mouth was next to the boy’s ear, d’Artagnan explained, “I’m going to carry you out of here. Hold on tightly, keep your face turned in to my chest and your eyes closed.” When he felt another nod he stood and cast a critical eye over the path they’d need to take back to the door. Striding quickly, he again found his way mostly be memory, feeling heartened that he’d found the boy safe and would now be able to reunite him with his grandparents. A portion of the ceiling ahead of him came cascading down, accompanied by sections of half-burned timbers and bright sparks that danced and flared in front of him. Stepping deftly to one side the Gascon increased his speed, making all possible haste to exit the burning building before it collapsed around them.

 

In one instant he was surrounded by the heat and roar of the flames, in the next he found himself suddenly weightless as the floor disappeared from beneath his feet. His only conscious thought was to tighten his arms around the precious bundle he carried and turn his body so that it was underneath the boy’s; moments later he felt a tremendous pain as he impacted with the ground. As darkness descended over his senses he prayed that his friends and the Brazeaus would forgive him for failing in his task to keep the boy safe. 

* * *

It was difficult to tell if their efforts were finally producing results or if the fire had simply begun to burn itself out, having devoured most of what had sustained it earlier as it consumed everything flammable in its path. The three Musketeers had worked tirelessly alongside the townsfolk to extinguish the flames which had turned the modest inn into a burned-out shell that was barely standing, one entire side of the building haven fallen in on itself. All three men were sombre, having waited for the Gascon to reappear at their sides and growing progressively more concerned as the minutes passed without any sign of the boy. Madame Brazeau had long since collapsed, overcome by the certainty that the young Musketeer had perished along with her grandson, and she and her husband had been escorted away from the burning inn by a kind neighbor. As the last few buckets were applied to the fire, finally extinguishing the monster that had earlier seemed unbeatable, Athos’ heavy feet took him to the stables which sat off to the side, incredibly untouched. His gaze was unfocused as he leaned his back against a wall, sliding to sit with his knees bent, hands scrubbing across his face and through his hair. As he allowed his hands to drop to his lap, Aramis and Porthos flanked him, dropping to the ground to sit on either side. The silence was oppressive but none of them had the words to express the sorrow they felt at their youngest brother’s absence. They had no idea how long they sat in this fashion, each consumed by their grief as the last flames sputtered out, allowing darkness to descend upon them as the townspeople dispersed and returned to their homes.

 

“Excuse me,” a voice cut through the fog clouding the men’s minds and Aramis and Porthos looked up from where they sat. “I don’t mean to interrupt but Monsieur Brazeau asked me to check on you.” The Musketeers stayed silent, Athos not even acknowledging the man’s presence. The man dropped his voice as he spoke, “I understand that your friend tried to save Phillipe. I’m very sorry.” The man paused and Aramis nodded in response to the man’s words. When it became clear that the men on the ground had nothing to say, the man cleared his throat, explaining, “I would be honored to welcome you into my home. It is not much, but I have an empty room…”

 

Porthos recognized not only the graciousness of the man’s offer but the necessity of finding alternate accommodations and was quick to accept, “Thank you, that’s very kind.” Glancing at his two friends, he saw Aramis’ quick nod while Athos remained unresponsive, “We’d be happy to accept.”

 

The man nodded, seemingly relieved. “My house is across from the tavern,” he said. “I will go prepare the room. Please, come when you are ready.” Aramis and Porthos nodded again, the man turning to walk away, and then stopping again. “I’m Alain Carre.” With that, the man moved away and Aramis and Porthos turned their attention back to the elder man.

 

“Athos,” Aramis placed a hand on the man’s knee. “We should go; there’s nothing more to be done here.” Athos swallowed thickly and shook his head, allowing it to drop in defeat. “We know, Athos, we share your sorrow.”

 

Porthos placed his arm around the man’s shoulders, pulling him close. A sob racked the older man’s frame and he closed his eyes, unwilling to open them to the reality that the young man was lost to them. Aramis reached around Athos’ shoulders from the other side and they pressed together in their shared anguish, trying to draw strength from one another as they faced a future without the Gascon who’d boldly stormed his way past their walls and inserted himself firmly into their midst. By the time they were ready to leave, all their faces were damp with tears and the first pink tendrils of dawn were appearing on the horizon. The three men staggered to their feet, still overcome by emotion and exhausted from the time spent battling the blaze, pausing briefly to pick up their discarded clothing and weapons. When they arrived at Carre’s house the man opened the door and stepped aside to allow them in, leading them wordlessly to a small but clean room that contained extra pillows and blankets and clean water and towels so the men could wash away some of the grime and soot that covered them. They stripped to their smalls so they could get clean, Alain coming back to deposit a tray of food on the small dressing table, and leaving with their filthy clothes, knowing that they had nothing clean to change into. None of the men felt like eating and they soon found themselves cocooned on the floor in a nest of pillows and blankets, bodies pressing against each other in a desperate bid to find comfort in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you know, I do NOT write death fics.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inhaling raggedly, Athos turned toward his friends, disbelief written on his face as he stated, “He’s alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great reviews on the last chapter and apologies for the cliffhanger - please note the writer is not responsible for any nail biting, sleepless nights, or other neurotic or addictive behaviours which may have occurred as a result. :-) Thanks for sticking around and I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

It was a noise that woke him, tugging at his unconscious mind in an effort to bring him to awareness. The sound was repeated again, lifting his consciousness to another level, and he waited for it to be repeated once more. When it was, it seemed to resonate from deep within his chest and it dawned on him that what he was hearing was a moan. This piqued his interest and again brought him to greater awareness and this time when the sound repeated, he recognized that it was his own voice he was hearing. The realization baffled him and he unknowingly frowned as his muddled brain tried to understand why he would be moaning. He lay quietly and extended his senses to gather more clues as to what was going on. First, he tried to make sense of what he saw, confused at the blackness before comprehending that his eyes were closed. The lids seemed too heavy to prise open and after only a half-hearted attempt he left them closed. He could smell something that reminded him of the fires they’d had back on the farm when they’d celebrated the end of harvest with a large bonfire, which all their neighbors would attend. While the smell was familiar, the memory didn’t seem to fit, and his brain discarded it as a possible explanation for the scent. Next, he became aware of his arms, which seemed to be gripping tightly to something, to the point that he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to release whatever he held, his limbs seemingly frozen in position. His chest was warm and felt heavy and, as d’Artagnan took a deeper breath, the pressure increased and caused him to cough.

 

The coughing awoke him like nothing else could, sending spikes of pain through his back, shoulders and neck and causing his eyes to tear with the pain the convulsions awoke. When the coughs passed, he kept his inhales shallow and forced his eyes to open, fully awake now but still unable to recall the circumstances of his situation. Opening his eyes did little to improve things and for several moments the Gascon blinked repeatedly to confirm that he had, in fact, managed to open his eyes. Finally, he was able to distinguish that the blackness that surrounded him was only slighter lighter than the full dark of his closed eyes, confirming that he had indeed opened them and was not blind. Turning his head to the side sent another jolt of electric pain through his skull and into his back and he panted through the intense sensation, which reminded him again of the weight on his chest. Forcing numb fingers to move, he identified fabric beneath his hands, covering a warm, soft shape that seemed almost melded to his own body. _Phillipe_ his mind supplied, some of the scattered events from before surfacing like individual puzzle pieces that had been carelessly cast about.

 

“Phi….” His attempt at voicing the boy’s name ended abruptly as his dry, smoke-ravaged throat prompted another round of weak coughs, beginning the vicious cycle of pain and shallow breathing once again as his body protested the jarring of sore and tender parts. Concentrating, he managed to slow his breaths enough to stop the coughs and regain control over the pain. Wishing desperately for a drink, he gathered all the saliva in his mouth and swallowed thickly, attempting to lubricate his throat before speaking again. “Phillipe,” the name came out as a whisper of air and d’Artagnan prayed the boy would hear him. Worry for the boy’s condition spiked as he received no response and the Gascon decided to try rolling the boy off of himself and onto the ground so he could examine him properly. Shifting minutely, d’Artagnan attempted to roll to his side only to find himself pinned in place, an unidentified weight pressing against his right shoulder and hip. The realization prompted a second attempt at moving, this time forcing additional strength into his limbs to push against the resistance that held him in place; the result was the same. A surge of adrenaline swept through his body and his next attempt was fueled by its effects, but the outcome was no different; whatever held him, held him fast, and unless he could wake the boy and get him to move on his own, d’Artagnan was well and truly stuck. The realization had his pulse racing and his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps as his still clouded mind recalled images of a similar time when he’d been trapped in the dark, unable to wake his companion. “ _No!_ ” his mind screamed, this was not the same. “It’s different,” he gasped, trying to convince himself that he was not once again trapped underground, endeavoring to push his fears away lest they consume him. “Not back there,” he panted, “got out.” His chest seemed to be squeezed tight, preventing him from taking a full breath, his vision tunnelling and spots appearing before his eyes. With a last gasping inhale, darkness pulled him into its grasp once again as he hyperventilated and fell unconscious.

* * *

The fact that they had managed to sleep until after mid-day was a testament to how truly fatigued they had been from the previous night’s events. As it was, when they first awoke they were content to remain in the nest they’d shared on the floor, choosing not to move until Porthos grumpily announced that he had to use the chamber pot, pushing Aramis’ arm gently off his chest and removing himself from where he was pressed against Athos’ back. They’d been awake now for a while, but none of them had been motivated to rise, given that they were facing the first of many days without their youngest brother.

 

It seemed that their host, Alain, had a keen sense of hearing and within minutes of Porthos’ movements around the room, followed shortly by Athos, a knock sounded at the door. Porthos plodded over to answer, opening it to find their host holding a tray of food. Raising it slightly, he said, “I thought you might be hungry.” As he waited for a response he took note of the haggard appearance of his guests, Aramis still sitting on the floor with his back against the narrow bed, his legs tangled in the blankets, Athos on the single chair and scrubbing a hand through his tousled hair, and Porthos with lines of tiredness and sorrow clearly etched on his face.

 

It was Aramis who finally responded, remembering his manners, “Thank you, Monsieur, you are too kind.”

 

Alain walked forward to place the tray on the dressing table, correcting the Musketeer, “Alain is just fine.”

 

Aramis nodded in thanks, pointing to himself and then the two others in turn when he realized that they had not introduced themselves the night prior, “Aramis, Porthos and Athos.”

 

Alain tipped his head in greeting to each of them before moving back to the door, “We will be helping the Brazeau’s rebuild the inn but nothing is to be started until you’re able to return to the site…” he paused, considering his words, “to help in the search.”

 

Aramis’ face blanched and Porthos inhaled sharply; only Athos’ face remained stoic as if made from stone. “We will be there shortly to assist,” he said, ensuring his tone betrayed none of the emotions he was experiencing at having to go back and search for the body of their lost brother.

 

“Oh, your clothes are over here,” Alain explained, pointing to a spot next to the dressing table. “I had them laundered so you might have something to wear today.”

 

Porthos clapped the man’s back, touched by the thoughtfulness of the man’s gesture, “Thank you.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Alain replied. “I’ll accompany you when you’re ready.”

 

Porthos closed the door after him, leaning on it for a few moments as he considered his friends. They were all still reeling from the loss of the Gascon and the idea of looking for his body was horrific, but he knew that none of them would be able to rest until he was found and properly laid to rest next to his other fallen brothers.

 

As they dressed and ate, they moved around the room as ghosts, hollow shells of themselves as each was lost in the memories of watching their friend running to his death. When they were ready they fell into step with each other, Alain rising to follow the men back to the destroyed inn. The Musketeers walked three abreast, Carre following a few steps behind and, as they walked, more of the townspeople noticed them and fell in behind them. By the time they’d traversed the few streets that separated them from the inn, there was a large crowd of people following them, all respectfully quiet and waiting for a sign of what to do next. Monsieur Brazeau was already there waiting for them, and he solemnly grasped each man’s hand in their shared sorrow as they prepared to try and locate two bodies.

 

At a nod from the innkeeper, the townspeople moved forward to help clear a path forward, through the crumbled remains of the building in front of them. Athos led the way, followed by his friends, all of them ducking beneath a partially burnt beam that had come to rest across a portion of the doorway. A few steps in they stopped, taking in the carnage that lay ahead of them. The inside of the building was nearly unrecognizable, and had they not been able to visualize it from their time there, they would have had little idea of what each room held before the blaze. Moving carefully, they picked their way through some of the thick oak beams that hadn’t been completely consumed, but which had been weakened enough that they’d fallen either from collapsed walls or the second floor that used to be above them. Brazeau followed them in, tears welling in his eyes as he viewed the destruction and imagined the fear that his grandson had faced as he’d been trapped inside, waiting for a terrible end.

 

Aramis was standing stock still, his brow furrowed as he examined something in the floor. “Monsieur,” he called to the innkeeper, “what’s this?” The other men joined him in contemplating what looked like a large hole in the floor.

 

Brazeau rubbed a hand across his face, “That was the old cellar. This used to be a much smaller house but we added on to it when we decided to open the inn. My wife didn’t like the location of the kitchen so we turned it into the common room, building a new kitchen in the newer part of the building. A new cellar was dug beneath it, and the old one – this one – was covered up with wooden planks and left unused. I had honestly forgotten about it until now.”

 

The men spent the rest of the day searching through the building for any sign of their friend or Phillipe, the townspeople helping by clearing out some of the half-burned furniture and rubble that prevented easy access, as well as shoring up the remaining walls and ceiling to keep everyone safe. After a few hours, it seemed clear that they would leave empty-handed, and Aramis stood again at the lip of the old cellar, a hand on his chin as he stroked his beard in thought. Porthos came to stand next to him, knocking a shoulder against the other man to get his attention, “What are you thinkin’?”

 

Turning to look at his friend, Aramis motioned to the hole, “Don’t you think it odd that we haven’t found any sign of either of them?”

 

Porthos shrugged, “I’ve heard of fires that are hot enough to burn even the bones. Maybe that’s what happened here?”

 

Aramis frowned, acknowledging that Porthos’ words were true, but unwilling to believe that was the case here. “I think we should clear the rubble from this hole.”

 

Athos had meandered over to stand next to them and had heard his friend’s words, “You don’t believe their remains were burned?”

 

Aramis shrugged, uncertain exactly what he believed, but not yet ready to give up hope. “We’ve seen enough left in here that it seems unlikely the fire was hot enough to erase all traces of them. This is the only place we haven’t looked.”

 

That seemed to be enough for his two friends and Porthos moved to gather some of the townspeople to help, knowing that the excavation of the former cellar would require additional assistance and equipment. Soon, they were lifting portions of plaster and oak beams from the pit. They started at the sides, attempting to brace the walls of the cellar, uncertain about the stability of a room that had been unused and abandoned for so many years. It was slow and tedious work that had the men’s muscles aching in reminder of how they’d been overtaxed the night prior.

 

When they had a small section cleared and the remaining debris was outside of their reach, Porthos motioned for someone to bring the rope he’d arranged for earlier, intending to lower himself down in order to continue clearing the space. Athos placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head, “We’ve no idea how stable that is and the last thing we need is for someone else to get hurt. Let me go in your place.” Porthos looked ready to disagree, but it would be hard to argue against Athos’ logic and the older man was lighter than he was. Grudgingly Porthos gave a short nod of agreement, taking the rope from the man who held it and helping Athos secure it tightly around his waist.

 

Porthos and Aramis positioned themselves at the other end of the rope, nodding their readiness to the older man who began to lower himself down, moving further into the centre of the hole when his feet touched down. The top of the pit was only at Athos’ shoulders because of the amount of debris beneath his feet, but Brazeau hadn’t been able to recall the number of stairs that led downwards, and the Musketeers were unwilling to take any chances with their brother’s life. Athos moved gingerly forward, testing the solidity of the rubble he walked upon before shifting his weight firmly forward. Soon he was shifting debris upwards to the townspeople, his two friends still holding steadfastly to the rope that secured him, unwilling to trust the task to anyone else.

 

As he pushed at a large and particularly heavy length of oak, his ears pricked at an unexpected sound. Stopping all movement, he put a finger to his lips, motioning everyone in the room to silence. The looks he received conveyed a mixture of confusion and annoyance, but a glare from Porthos had everyone obeying Athos’ silent command. They stood quietly for several seconds, no one having any idea what they were waiting for, but the Musketeers trusting that their leader had a good reason for his request. Everyone watched as Athos cocked his head to one side, intently listening for something that only he could hear, suddenly dropping to his knees, startling his two friends until they realized the action had been deliberate.

 

“Athos?” Porthos growled softly, hating the fact that they didn’t know what was happening and his patience fast running out.

 

Athos held a hand up indicating his need for silence, as he turned his head to the side, listening again. Moments later he lifted his head and called out, “Phillipe?”

 

Brazeau gasped as the Musketeer called for his lost grandson, clasping a hand to his chest in shock. Porthos and Aramis traded astonished looks and the medic moved to stand next to the old man, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder as they watched their friend’s actions.

 

“Phillipe, is that you?” Athos called again. A look of amazement crossed the man’s face and his motions became more intense as he spoke, “Phillipe, we’re here and we’ll get you out. Are you injured?” Turning his ear toward the debris beneath him again, Athos waited for a reply. “Alright, just stay still and we’ll have you out soon.” About to move, the man arrested his motions, turning to listen once more. Athos paled at whatever he’d heard and he dropped his head toward his chest as he asked, “Are you certain?” Porthos could see Athos’ hands clenching into tight fists, telegraphing the tension that Phillipe’s words had wrought. “Thank you, Phillipe. We’ll have you out of there shortly.”

 

Inhaling raggedly, Athos turned toward his friends, disbelief written on his face as he stated, “He’s alive.”

* * *

The Gascon was overwhelmed with relief when Phillipe finally stirred in his arms. He had no idea how long it had been since they’d fallen through the floor and no way of knowing whether it was day or night, the darkness within the hole nearly complete. When he’d regained his senses after passing out earlier, the space was just as inky as before and the panic had welled within him, threatening to engulf him once again, but this time there had been Phillipe. The boy had apparently been awake for some time and only drew strength from the fact that he was not alone, a demonstration of bravery that the Musketeer was desperately trying to live up to himself as he battled his demons so as not to further scare the boy.

 

Phillipe’s awareness had been a blessing in that it gave the Gascon another opportunity to try to relieve the crushing pressure on his chest, seemingly growing worse the longer they lay there. Despite the young boy’s best efforts, he was no more able to move than the man below him and when he’d tried, d’Artagnan had cried out in pain, causing another round of coughing as he discovered broken ribs on his left side which were jostled with Phillipe’s attempts to remove himself. He panted through the agony, coughing intermittently, trying to reassure the child with him at the same time though his air was limited, causing him to feel disconnected and lightheaded. When he’d recovered himself somewhat, he swallowed painfully, wishing once more for a drink of water to relieve his parched throat.

 

“Phillipe, it’s alright now,” d’Artagnan whispered, anything louder beyond his current abilities. Exhaling shakily, he asked, “Are you hurt?” The boy shook his head, his hair tickling the Gascon’s chin as the child still lay tucked into the Musketeer’s body. “Good,” d’Artagnan breathed out.

 

“Do you think they’ll find us?” the boy’s small voice asked.

 

d’Artagnan had been wondering the same and, while he was certain his friends would not leave without a body to bury, the question was more of whether they’d be found in time. He had no idea how long they’d been trapped inside, but thirst was becoming a very real concern. There seemed to be enough air to breathe, so they would be alright on that front, although the Gascon felt increasingly short of breath and wondered if that was simply his imagination or because of something worse. What he wasn’t certain of was how badly he was injured and whether he’d suffered anything fatal, his back, chest, neck and head melding into one all-encompassing throb that would have kept him laying quietly even if movement had been possible.

 

Licking his cracked lips with what little moisture remained in his mouth, d'Artagnan did his best to reassure the boy, “Of course they’ll find us. My friends would never leave without me and I’m certain your grandparents feel the same.” He had to stop to take several shallow inhales, doing his best to control his breathing and prevent another round of coughs. “Best keep an ear out and when you hear noise above us, call out.” He felt the boy nod and sighed gratefully, knowing he would never be able to draw enough air to push a sound from his throat that would be loud enough for anyone to hear.

 

They’d fallen silent after that and both dozed intermittently, the Gascon painfully jerking awake each time as his nightmares returned and progressively grew worse, accompanied by hoarse coughing that seemed to rip at his chest. He was thankful that Phillipe didn’t question him when he’d wake up gasping, struggling to fill his lungs until he’d calmed down enough to remember their current predicament; instead, the boy simply snuggled closer, offering what silent comfort he could to the Musketeer who’d treated him so kindly since their acquaintance.

 

They were both awake when Phillipe tensed in anticipation. When d’Artagnan noticed, he asked breathlessly, “What is it?”

 

The boy waited a moment, listening intently before he raised his head, “I hear something.”

 

The Gascon swallowed with difficulty and replied weakly, “Try calling out.”

 

The boy turned his mouth up as far as possible within their confined space and yelled as loudly as he could, “Hello!”

 

d’Artagnan cringed as the volume of the boy’s shout hurt his aching head, but was gladdened that the child still had the strength to project his voice so strongly, greatly increasing their odds that they might be found in time. They waited several seconds, not having heard any reply, so the boy tried again. The Gascon closed his eyes momentarily as the child’s yell sent a stab of pain through his fragile skull. He must have lost a few seconds for when he opened them, Phillipe was speaking excitedly. “I’m fine.”

 

d’Artagnan tried to keep his breathing even, straining to hear over the thump of his heart in his ears, but the most he was able to make out was a man’s voice, and he wasn’t aware enough to make out the words. “What are they saying?” he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open against the weariness that seemed to be enveloping him.

 

Phillipe looked down at the man beneath him, wishing for more light so he might be able to make out his features, but the only clue he had to his friend’s condition was the more frequent bouts of coughing and sleep, and the overly breathless and thready quality of his voice. “They know we’re here.”

 

“Good,” the Gascon sighed. It was not his intention to fall asleep, but his lids closed of their own volition and Phillipe could sense the change in the man’s body as the arms that held him relaxed around him.

 

“d’Artagnan’s here too. I think he’s hurt…I think he’s dying.” Phillipe waited for a reply from above, grateful when the voice indicated they’d be freed soon. With nothing more to do but wait, the child settled back down against his friend’s chest, placing an ear above his heart, reassured by the steady beat he heard as he prayed that those above would reach them in time.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retaking his seat next to the boy’s bed, Athos placed a hand on the boy’s brow, stating fondly, “Hard to believe, but his stubbornness may actually be part of his charm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have been patiently (or not!) waiting for the rescue, I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

“Phillipe is alive?” Monsieur Brazeau stammered, moving forward as Athos was lifted from the hole, a look of hope etched on his face, his hands trembling at the thought that his grandson might still live. Porthos extended a hand to Athos and pulled him up, the three men standing around the oldest Musketeer expectantly, waiting for him to share his news.

 

Focusing first on the innkeeper, Athos answered, “Phillipe is alive and unharmed.” Brazeau’s knees almost buckled and Aramis’ firm grip was the only thing keeping him upright for several seconds.

 

When he’d recovered, he nodded at the medic and smiled at Athos with tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly.

 

Athos gave the man a ghost of a smile before turning his attention to his two friends. “d’Artagnan is with him.”

 

The men’s faces dropped at the implication that the boy was trapped with their dead friend. At the looks that appeared, Athos hastened to clarify, “No, he’s alive as well, but injured. Phillipe isn’t sure how badly but he asked us to hurry.” The men’s features went from elated to concerned and finally to focused as they processed Athos’ words and they lost little time putting the townspeople to work again. Over the next hour Porthos joined Athos in the hole, helping to clear the debris that buried the two boys, using additional ropes to pull heavier pieces of oak out of the way. As they got closer, Phillipe’s voice got louder until a shifting of some plaster revealed the boy’s white-dusted face.

 

From the edge of the hole Brazeau gasped the boy’s name, impatient to get the child free so he could be spirited away to the arms of his grandmother. Porthos leaned forward and placed a hand on the child’s face. “Phillipe, we’re really happy to see you. You’re not hurt?”

 

The boy shook his head, fear still clearly evident in his features. Moving closer, Athos drew the boy’s attention with a question of his own. “Where is d’Artagnan?”

 

The boy’s eyes dipped downwards before meeting their gazes again, “He’s underneath me. I tried moving but we’re stuck.”

 

Porthos frowned at the child’s statement. “If we helped do you think you could wiggle free?”

 

The boy shook his head vehemently, “No, I tried that but it hurt him. I don’t want to do that again.”

 

Athos looked to where Aramis stood next to Brazeau, the medic’s impatience apparent in his tense shoulders and clenched fists, as he longed to get access to his patient so that his injuries might be assessed.

 

“Very well,” Athos agreed, “we’ll continue as we were before and move more of what covers you.”

 

Porthos gave the child a look of encouragement, “May be best to keep your eyes closed ‘cause of the dust.” Phillipe did as Porthos suggested and the two men moved into action again, carefully removing the debris and revealing more of the boy.

 

When they could see the entire length of the child’s body, Athos reached forward to unclasp d’Artagnan’s arms, surprised at how cold the man’s hands were as he clutched the boy tightly. Grunting, Athos looked to the boy, “Phillipe, is d’Artagnan awake?” Receiving a head shake, Athos pulled at the Gascon’s arms again. As he managed to pull one hand free from the other, he heard a cry from below along with several weak coughs and halted his actions, waiting to see what would happen next. When nothing further was heard, he lifted one arm, feeling it tense in his hands before it was jerked away from his hold.

 

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, as they watched the Gascon resume his hold on the boy. Phillipe turned his head away from them and they could hear him murmuring. “d’Artagnan, it’s alright. It’s your friends, they came for us. You can let go now.” A few seconds passed and then the child spoke again. “It’s really alright. You kept me safe but you can let go now.”

 

They watched the Gascon’s hands as they loosened, frustrated that they were unable to see anything more of their friend’s body until the child was lifted away. When the boy was free from d’Artagnan’s hold, Porthos gently lifted him upwards, doing his best not to jar the body beneath him. As soon as the child was out, Porthos was moving to the edge of the cellar, hands already reaching toward him to remove the boy from his arms. Athos in the meantime moved forward to get his first look at d’Artagnan, shocked at the pinched and pale face, and discouraged when he spotted another oak beam that rested along the boy’s right side. Athos looked up as he saw Porthos returning, a look of anguish on his face.

 

“What?” Porthos questioned.

 

“There’s another beam holding him in place. We need to move it before we can get him out,” Athos replied.

 

“Is he awake?” Aramis called from where he still stood at the edge of the hole.

 

Porthos looked down at the boy and then back at his friend, giving a quick shake of his head. Athos reached a hand down, placing it on the boy’s cheek, concern welling again at the clammy skin he felt beneath his palm. “d’Artagnan,” he called, desperate to see the boy awake, “can you hear me?” But their young friend was unconscious again and remained silent and still, eyes closed, his breaths wheezing with every inhale and exhale. When it was obvious that the boy would not wake, Athos removed his hand and motioned to Porthos to help him with the timbre that held the boy fast. The beam was braced precariously against some of the other rubble that surrounded them, with only a portion of its weight on the young man, a realization that was both heartening and worrisome since a wrong move on the part of the two men could cause the beam to shift, crushing the Gascon beneath its substantial weight.

 

The two strained to push the wood away from the boy’s side, but it proved too heavy to move, Porthos finally standing upright to stop Athos in his efforts, “It’s too heavy. We’ll need to get the rope instead.” Athos nodded, wiping a sleeve across his sweaty face as the larger man moved to collect the rope so they could attach it to the beam and use the strength of the townspeople to help shift it. The process of securing the rope was another challenge to overcome, requiring nearly a half hour worth of work to clear away additional rubble to gain access around and below the wood so the rope could be looped around.

 

When they were finally finished, both men took up positions to d’Artagnan’s left, Porthos near the man’s legs and Athos at his head. At a nod from Porthos, the townspeople pulled the rope taught and continued to exert force to pull the beam away from the young man. It was a slow process, the heavy timbre moving in small increments, but finally Porthos held up a hand, signalling for the men to stop but to hold fast so the wood didn’t slip back into its previous position. Aramis was already scrambling down to join them, wanting to have a first look before they moved the Gascon. Their access was still poor, but Aramis was able to check the boy’s pulse and breathing, lifting both eyelids to find his patient deeply unconscious and completely unresponsive. Running his hands along the parts of d’Artagnan’s body that he was able to reach revealed broken ribs on his left side but no visible signs of bleeding, which Aramis felt was a small mercy. When he’d done what he could to confirm that the man was stable enough to be moved, he helped his two friends pull their youngest from where he rested, Aramis supporting the boy’s head and shoulders while Athos and Porthos positioned themselves on either side, supporting his arms and legs.

 

It was disconcerting to see how limp the boy was, offering no resistance to being manhandled even though it must have been a painful experience. When they reached the edge of the hole, Aramis scrambled out first, readying to receive their precious cargo as other men reached forward to help lift the boy up. By the time that Porthos and Athos had also climbed up and made their way outside, d’Artagnan had been laid in a wagon which had been padded with several blankets, Aramis beside him, waiting for his friends so they could leave. He looked up at their arrival, worry plain in his eyes, “We need to get him back.”

 

Porthos wasted no time, climbing into the driver’s seat and spurring the horses into motion while Athos swung into the back, taking position on the Gascon’s other side. Placing a hand gently on the boy’s chest, he peered at Aramis, “Will he be alright?”

 

Aramis hesitated, not even certain yet of the full extent of the injuries the boy had suffered and he spoke softly, “It’s a good sign he’s lasted this long. I’ll know more when we have him in a bed.”

 

The trip back to Carre’s house was mercilessly quick, and the man himself had gone on ahead when the boy was being removed from the old cellar. The door was already flung open wide when they arrived and the three Musketeers worked together to ease their friend inside, gratified to find Alain preparing clean water and cloths. They laid him on the narrow bed, arranging his arms at his side, Aramis reaching for his knife to start cutting away the boy’s ripped shirt, recognizing that it would be impossible to save. Porthos and Athos worked in tandem to remove the boy’s boots and breeches, thankful when neither revealed any obvious wounds. “Porthos,” Aramis called to his friend and the large man moved to sit the boy up enough so Aramis could pull the ruined shirt from underneath him. Athos brought the sole chair to the bed and Aramis sat down with a quick nod of gratitude, recognizing that he’d likely be working on the boy for quite some time. When Alain appeared with hot water, Porthos motioned for him to pour some into the room’s basin, bringing it to rest on the floor between himself and Athos, along with a handful of cloths. The two men began to gently wash the young man’s face, hands and chest, wiping away the grime and sweat that had accumulated from his time spent inside the crumbling inn.

 

When they’d finished, Aramis motioned for them to help turn the boy on his uninjured side, wanting access to his back, the only part that he hadn’t yet examined. When the young man’s back was revealed, Aramis gasped at the deep and plentiful bruising he found, allowing his fingers to ghost gently across the skin. Both Musketeers looked up sharply at Aramis’ sound of dismay, Athos leaning over the boy to see for himself. He was as shocked as the medic had been and watched as Aramis began to press at the boy’s shoulder blade, bruised almost black, then moved to do the same at his ribs and lower back, finally gently manipulating the boy’s neck and parting the boy’s hair to examine his scalp.

 

When he leaned back in his chair, Porthos could wait not longer, “Well?” he asked, irritable with concern.

 

Aramis looked up blankly, clearly still focused on considering how he would treat the boy’s injuries. Scrubbing a hand through his curls, he said, “I’ll need my bag – there’s a salve in there that will help.” When he fell silent, Porthos growled and Aramis started, realizing that they were waiting for more. “Sorry,” he murmured. “His left shoulder blade is broken, if the swelling is anything to go by, as is one of the ribs along his back and two more at the front. There’s a pretty deep gash on the back of his head which looks fresh enough to stitch. Other than that, it’s just bruising; that’s all I’ve found so far.”

 

“More than enough, I think,” Athos commented dryly, his hand carding absentmindedly through the young man’s hair.

 

“Aramis, your bag, it was at the inn…” Porthos reminded the medic.

 

“Merde!” Aramis swore. “You’re right, of course. I’ll speak with Alain and see if they have an herbalist in town.”

 

Porthos held up a hand, “No, d’Artagnan needs you here. I’ll see if he has a needle and thread and then make the request for an herbalist.”

 

Aramis nodded gratefully, “Wine, too, or brandy. I’ll need to clean it before I stitch it.”

 

Porthos exited to find their host while Athos and Aramis sat the boy upright, a few weak coughs pushing from the boy’s chest at the change in position, which brought another frown to the medic’s face. Aramis motioned to the older man to sit behind d’Artagnan so he could properly access the damaged shoulder; gently, he positioned the boy’s left arm so it lay across his chest and had Athos hold it in place while he bound it firmly with bandages, preventing any movement.

 

Leaning back when he was done, he met Athos’ gaze, “It will be quite painful but there’s nothing more we can do other than keep the arm still while it heals.” When Porthos returned, he held a bottle of brandy in one hand and needle and thread in the other. Athos looked longingly at the bottle, but knew that Aramis’ need was greater, intending to wash out the gash on the boy’s head before he sewed it closed. Coordinating their movements, Athos removed himself from behind the boy and they laid him down on his side again. After carefully cleaning the cut with water and then a generous dousing of brandy, the medic placed a total of 8 stitches. When he’d finished, Porthos rolled two blankets so they could brace the boy somewhat on his side, so as not to place pressure on any of the broken bones on his left side. Another two blankets were laid over top of him in an effort to warm him.

 

“Alain says he knows of an herbalist and will take you there when you’re ready,” Porthos explained. Aramis hesitated, eyes darting back to his patient who had still not woken. “We’ll watch him while you’re gone,” Porthos stated, motioning meaningfully at Athos who hadn’t budged from the young man’s side. Aramis gave a short nod, knowing that he was the only one who could go collect the necessary ingredients for the salve he needed. Porthos followed him out, watching as Athos shifted into their only chair. When he returned, he held a second chair in his hands which he positioned on the bed’s other side, joining Athos in his silent vigil as they waited for the boy to wake.

* * *

Aramis had returned in under an hour, a satchel full of various herbs clutched tightly in his hands. Without even greeting his comrades, he made his way directly to his patient’s side, checking the boy’s pulse and breathing as well as his temperature. Satisfied that things were no worse than when he’d left, he sought out their guest once more to borrow a mortar and pestle as well as a third chair, causing a pang of guilt to swell in his chest at the knowledge that they’d now taken the last of the man’s chairs for their use, a fact which seemed to matter little to Alain. When he’d finished, he had two salves prepared; one for the deep bruising that coloured the boy’s back and part of his chest, and another that he would use to cover the stitches he’d placed to ward off infection. He brought the items over to the bed, trading places with Porthos who moved to allow him access, and began by placing a thin layer over the gash in the boy’s head. Next, he took a more generous portion, which he rubbed between his hands in order to warm it, and then began to rub it over the boy’s back.

 

d’Artagnan still hadn’t woken, which concerned Aramis more than he was willing to share with his brothers, but as he gently massaged some of the darker bruising on the boy’s back, they could hear a soft moan. Aramis stilled his hand, but didn’t remove it, waiting to see if the sound would be repeated. When it was, the medic nodded at Athos who cupped the boy’s cheek, beseeching him to wake, “d’Artagnan, you must wake now. Open your eyes.” The Gascon drew a deeper inhale, which had him coughing and screwing his face up in pain. “It’s alright d’Artagnan, you’re safe now. Just take slow, even breaths.”

 

d’Artagnan did as he was told, taking several slow, shallow breaths before his eyes fluttered open for a moment, closing again with a gasp at the bright candlelight that assaulted him from behind his mentor’s shoulder. Athos threw a quick glance to Porthos who was already moving to extinguish the candle, dimming the light in the room considerably. “Try again, d’Artagnan, it’s not as bright now.”

 

The three watched anxiously as their youngest brother opened his eyes once more, blinking slowly in an effort to focus his vision. “’Thos?” d’Artagnan breathed out.

 

A smile tugged at the man’s lips as he softly cupped the Gascon’s cheek, “Yes, we’re all here with you. How are you feeling?”

 

The young man was quiet for several long seconds before he licked his lips and replied, “Thirsty.”

 

Porthos poured a cup of water and handed it to Athos who lifted the Gascon’s head up enough so he could have a few sips. By the time he’d finished, his eyes were beginning to close again and Aramis moved around the bed, motioning for Athos to allow him to take his place. “d’Artagnan, where does it hurt?”

 

The Gascon looked at him blearily, blinking several times before he whispered, “Head…chest….back.” He stopped to catch his breath, his eyes closing and for a moment Aramis believed him to have fallen asleep until his lids lifted once more, “Hip.”

 

Aramis frowned, not having found any injuries on d’Artagnan’s lower body during his earlier examination. Placing a hand on the boy’s head, he asked, “Which one?”

 

Inhaling first, the young man replied as he carefully exhaled, “Right.”

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis coaxed as the boy’s eyes slipped closed again. “We need to check. Just let us do all the work, alright?”

 

A small nod was all he received, and he motioned to his two friends as he pulled the blankets back. “Help me get him out of his braies.” They completed the task as smoothly as they were able, but it still drew the occasional sound of pain from the boy as he was jostled. When he’d been undressed, Aramis spoke again, “We need to turn you more onto your back but Porthos is there and he’ll support you.” Another slight dip of the Gascon’s head indicated his understanding and the medic positioned Porthos to hold the boy’s head and shoulders, while Athos supported his lower body. When d’Artagnan’s right hip was revealed, Aramis cursed lowly under his breath, the bruising looking as deep and painful as parts of his back.

 

With one hand back on the boy’s head, he murmured soft words of comfort as he pressed at the damaged area to confirm that nothing was broken. “Breathe, d’Artagnan, just keep breathing. Almost done.” Finishing as quickly as he could, he kept a hand on the boy as the fingers of his other hand dipped into the salve he’d made and he rubbed gentle circles on the affected area. “All done.” The Gascon was panting harshly, coughs slipping out in between inhales, the pain in his hip having flared at the medic’s attention.

 

The two Musketeers looked to Aramis now, wondering how to position the boy given his vast array of injuries and unwilling to allow him to rest again on his bruised hip. “He’ll need to lay more on his back, but we still can’t let his broken rib and shoulder rest on the mattress. The two men nodded their understanding, repositioning the rolled blankets from earlier to still keep his injuries off the bed but laying him more onto his back so his right hip was also not bearing his weight.

 

By the time they’d finished, the Gascon was exhausted from the pain and had slipped back into sleep before they’d replaced the blankets that covered him. The other three stood, exchanging glances across the boy’s bed. “Well?” Athos asked.

 

Aramis shrugged, “It’s a good sign that he woke and he seemed lucid enough. The worst will be managing his pain as he has longer periods of wakefulness, especially since there’s really no comfortable position for him to rest in, and with that hip, he’ll be unable to get out of bed for several more days.”

 

Porthos sighed at the medic’s verdict, “He never can do anything the easy way, can he?”

 

Retaking his seat next to the boy’s bed, Athos placed a hand on the boy’s brow, stating fondly, “Hard to believe, but his stubbornness may actually be part of his charm.”

 

His friends snorted and retook their own seats, settling down to watch over their youngest as the evening wore on.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The fire at the inn was no accident; it was set deliberately."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments on the last chapter. Hope this one satisfies as well!

They’d eaten a late meal when prompted by Alain, who once again brought food to their room. It had been a near contest when they’d all stated their desire to sit up with the boy, but the emotional and physical intensity of the past two days was wearing on them and common sense eventually won out, Aramis taking the first shift while the others slept. He sat with the boy until well after midnight, disappointed when he didn’t wake at all, but glad for the fact that the Gascon was getting some much-needed rest disturbed only by the occasional cough. He and Porthos had silently agreed that the large man would take the next watch, and when he could no longer keep his eyes open, Aramis woke him and stumbled into the vacated spot on the floor, pulling a blanket sloppily over himself as he succumbed to sleep. Both Porthos and Aramis were familiar with Athos’ sleeping habits and had been certain the man would wake closer to dawn, which was why they left the shift closest to morning for him. Unsurprisingly, Athos woke early in the morning and padded over to sit in one of the two chairs still positioned by the Gascon’s bed.

 

“Any change?” Athos asked, scrubbing a hand across his face in an attempt to properly wake.

 

“No, he slept through but he’s still coughing some,” Porthos replied, adjusting his position in the chair as he stretched stiff back and shoulder muscles from the hours of inactivity.

 

Athos gave a short nod, risking a hand on the young man’s face, then brushing away some errant bangs that had fallen forward. “He feels warmer,” he murmured.

 

Porthos grunted in reply, looking longingly at the blanket that Athos had discarded. “Go, get some more sleep. I’ll wake you both in a few hours,” Athos ordered, knowing that all of them still had many hours of rest to catch up on. The large man grinned at his leader’s perceptiveness and moved to obey, and soon the only sound in the room was that of the two men’s snoring.

 

Athos had wandered briefly out of their room and found a small selection of books arranged on a narrow bookcase. Seeing one he recognized, he took it back to the room with him in order to pass the time while the others slept, his usual method of occupying himself sadly unavailable to him. He’d been reading for almost an hour when he heard and saw the first indications that d’Artagnan might be waking soon. It began with a soft whimper that was less than a groan but enough that Athos’ attentive ears heard it right away. Sitting up taller in his chair, Athos allowed the book to close in his lap and leaned forward to observe the young man. d’Artagnan’s brow was furrowed as if in pain, and the fingers of his left hand twitched where they lay against his chest, arm still tightly bound to keep it from moving. As he continued to watch, the sound he’d heard was repeated, accompanied by a short intake of air that was more gasp than inhale and Athos’ expression grew concerned; it was starting to seem less likely that the boy was waking, but more than likely that he was experiencing a bad dream.

 

Placing the book on the floor beside him Athos reached forward, laying a hand on the Gascon’s cheek, whispering words of comfort to him to let him know he was safe and not alone, hopeful that the boy would return to a more restful sleep. As the bad dream continued, d’Artagnan moaned, gasping at something that wasn’t real except in his mind. Worried that the boy would hurt himself if allowed to continue, Athos changed his approach, trying to wake the boy instead. “d’Artagnan, wake up. You’re dreaming but it’s not real.” Rising, he wet a cloth in the now cooled water of the basin, and began to wipe it across the young man’s face and neck, hoping the sensation would bring him out of his dreams. d’Artagnan shivered and moaned again, trying to turn away from the wetness, but unable to because of the rolled blankets that supported his back. “That’s it, wake up. I’ll stop when I see your eyes.”

 

Another short gasp and the boy’s eyes flew open, a look of confusion on his face for several moments before recognition dawned. “Athos,” he whispered, before coughing several times, his face screwed up in pain as the action pulled painfully at his ribs.

 

The older man waited for the coughs to quiet, then quirked his lips and removed the wet cloth as he’d promised, leaning forward again in order to stay in the young man’s line of sight. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed as he considered the question, “Already answered that.” Athos was confused by the answer for a moment until he recalled the questions Aramis had posed the last time the boy was awake and he nodded in acceptance of the Gascon’s words.

 

“Yes, but that was many hours ago so I would appreciate it if you humoured me and told me again,” Athos told him.

 

The young man seemed ready to argue, but was still overwhelmingly tired and weak, so he answered instead, “Tired and sore.” Swallowing with difficulty, he added, “Thirsty.” Athos tipped his head at that and rose from his seat, d’Artagnan’s eyes following him as much as he was able without moving. He gratefully opened his mouth as Athos lifted his head and brought the cup forward so he could drink. “Thank you,” he breathed out when he’d finished, his eyelids beginning to slide closed.

 

“Rest,” Athos told him, “we’ll be here when you wake.” The young man didn’t make any further sound as he slipped into darkness once again, the injuries that he’d endured as well as the delay in his treatment having sapped his strength.

 

The next time he woke it was after mid-day and his three friends had all roused and eaten, Porthos having gone back to the inn for a while to ensure their horses, which were still at the stable next door, were being well cared for, and to lend his muscle to the re-building efforts. Athos had been convinced by Aramis to take a break, so he’d accompanied their host to visit the Brazeaus, certain that once d’Artagnan was more aware he’d be asking after Phillipe’s condition. It was another bad dream that disturbed d’Artagnan’s rest and he was somewhat more panicked this time than earlier. He started awake, prompting another round of painful coughing, jarring his shoulder and ribs as his body jerked in an effort to escape whatever haunted him.

 

Aramis was at his side instantly, a grounding hand on his upper arm, coaching him to slow his breaths in order to master the pain that pulsed with each expansion of his chest. As the boy began to relax, Aramis wiped at his face and neck to remove the sheen of sweat that lay there. “Are you with me now?” the medic asked in concern.

 

d'Artagnan swallowed and gave a brief nod, “Sorry.”

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Aramis assured him as he helped the Gascon drink. “It would be an unusual thing if you didn’t have the odd bad dream or two after what happened. Speaking of which, how much do you remember?”

 

It was the first time that the young man had been aware for long enough to have any form of conversation, and d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed as he tried to work through the fog that still clouded his thoughts. “There was a fire?” he said hesitantly, more question than statement. Aramis dipped his head, hoping the boy would continue. “Phillipe,” the Gascon nearly choked on the boy’s name as the events at the inn flooded back.

 

“He’s fine, you saved him,” Aramis assured, exerting slightly more pressure on d’Artagnan’s arm to keep him from trying to sit up. “We found you in the old cellar. I’m guessing the boards that covered it were weakened in the blaze and you fell through.”

 

The Gascon gave a nod, “I remember running and then falling. I was holding Phillipe when we fell.”

 

“You did a fine job of protecting the boy. As far as I know, he’s back with his grandparents and doing well. Athos is there visiting with them now,” Aramis advised. d’Artagnan gave another nod, but remained silent and Aramis noted the sweat that dotted the boy’s hairline and the increased discomfort that seemed to be accompanying each breath. “How is your pain?” he asked.

 

“Hurts,” he paused as his breathing hitched, closing his eyes tightly for a moment, “pretty badly.”

 

Aramis had anticipated this and had ground some of the herbs he’d obtained into a powder that could be mixed with water to create a powerful pain draught. “Just hold on a moment,” he said, rising to gather the items he needed. Quickly combining the necessary ingredients, he sat down at d’Artagnan’s side, helping him to drink the bitter but effective brew.

 

“Ugh,” the Gascon pulled away, “that’s terrible.”

 

Aramis chuckled at his reaction, placing the cup at his lips once more, “Unfortunately, but you’ll drink it all if you want some relief.” Despite his misgivings, d’Artagnan allowed his friend to help him drain the cup, laying his head back down gratefully when he’d finished.

 

“Why does it hurt so much?” the young man asked as his blinking slowed, sleep pulling at him once again.

 

“It seems that falling into a cellar in the middle of a fire disagrees with you,” Aramis told him, smiling. “Close your eyes and sleep now; I’ll explain more the next time you’re awake.”

 

He watched as the young man slipped back asleep, settling himself once more at the boy’s side, happy for the short time alone while Athos and Porthos were away. He knew that even once they returned, he would not ask his brothers to relieve him, the previous day’s feelings of loss still raw, drawing him close to the Gascon even when his other two friends were present. The three had not discussed it, but Aramis could see how Athos’ eyes were still haunted, recalling clearly the time they’d spent apart, believing the young man was dead. It was a testament to how strongly he loved the boy that he’d stayed by his side rather than seeking solace in a bottle. Porthos managed to hide it better, his natural exuberance making those around him believe that everything was alright, but to those who knew him well, the frequent tender touches as he cared for the boy showed how much he’d been shaken as well. Porthos, who’d had so little growing up, loved his brothers with a fierce and unwavering devotion and his reluctance to be separated from them demonstrated his desire to do everything in his power to not lose what he’d gained since becoming a Musketeer. Aramis knew that for himself, his concern was expressed through the care he took in nursing his friends back to health. All of his friends had gently teased him about his tendency to obsess over everything, checking and rechecking, until he was satisfied that his patient was recovering. Each of them had their own subtle tells, but they were known only to their brothers who would worry over them as much as they were worried for. With a hint of a smile on his face, Aramis checked the warmth of the Gascon’s brow once more before leaning back in his chair, satisfied that the boy was doing as well as could be expected.

 

With the help of the pain draught, d’Artagnan managed to sleep until evening when he had to be woken by Athos from another nightmare. When he’d settled, Porthos was standing next to Athos, frowning at him. “What’s going on?” the Gascon asked, eyes moving between the two men.

 

“The nightmares are back,” Porthos stated kindly. The young man averted his eyes and Porthos waited silently for a minute before he asked, “Is it the same as last time?”

 

The two Musketeers held their breaths as they waited to see if their young friend would reply and, without meeting their gazes, he gave a slow nod. Porthos sat down near the end of the bed, placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s ankle while Athos reached a hand to clasp the young man’s arm.

 

“It will _not_ be like last time,” Athos promised confidently. “We are here with you and you will overcome this as you did before.”

 

Porthos squeezed the ankle beneath his hand, “We won’t let you push us away, so don’t even try.”

 

d’Artagnan was overwhelmed by his brothers’ support and thankful beyond measure that his friends didn’t see the bad dreams that plagued him as weakness, pledging their support instead of standing in judgement. Nearly choking at the depth of emotion that his brothers’ words had stirred in him, he chose to offer only a short nod of his head to let them know that he’d heard.

 

Aramis walked in to see his two friends at d’Artagnan’s bed and deposited the tray he was holding before moving in between the two men to address the young man. With a smile on his face, he greeted the boy, “Hello, d’Artagnan, it’s good to see you awake again.” He looked between his two friends, seeing their serious expressions and made a mental note to ask them about it later. “How are you feeling?” he asked as Athos and Porthos backed off to allow the two men some space.

 

“Better, I think,” the Gascon croaked, frowning at the sound of his wrecked voice.

 

Aramis noticed his reaction and was quick to assure him, “Don’t worry about that; your throat is still irritated from the smoke you inhaled. That’s the cause of your coughing as well and both will clear up in time.” d’Artagnan gave a nod of understanding. “Do you feel up to eating something?” The young man could honestly not remember the last meal he’d had and realized now how empty his stomach felt. Another nod pulled an even wider grin from the medic who motioned to Porthos for the cup of broth that sat on the tray. Porthos obligingly brought it over while Athos helped d’Artagnan sit upright, Aramis quickly shifting the rolled up blankets behind his back so he could lay against them.

 

When the manoeuver was finished, d’Artagnan lay against the pile of pillows and blankets behind him, eyes closed as he regained his composure after the pain of the move. He reopened his eyes to find three troubled faces watching him, bringing a small grin to his face as he stretched his uninjured arm out for the broth. “You lot are worse than a pack of old hens.” Porthos handed him the cup of broth, which Aramis immediately reached out to steady when he saw the trembling of the boy’s hand. Taking a sip, d’Artagnan gave his still shaking hand a disgusted look before he lowered it to rest on his lap, “What happened to me?”

 

“You remember what I told you earlier?” Aramis queried, wanting to confirm that the young man’s memory was intact. At his nod, he continued, “When you fell, you injured your shoulder and ribs on your left side; the injuries to your back are unusual and I can only guess the bones broke due to the combined pressure from impacting the ground and having Phillipe’s weight pushing down on you from above.”

 

“Huh,” d’Artagnan mused, bringing the cup back to his lips, steadied once more by the medic.

 

“The pain in your hip is due to deep bruising and was likely caused by the wooden beam that was part of the debris that covered you after your fall.” Aramis shuddered lightly as he said, “All in all, you were extraordinarily luck.”

 

“And Phillipe?” the Gascon asked, shifting his gaze to Athos.

 

“Phillipe is doing well; there’s not a scratch on him. His grandparents are impatient to see you so they can thank you themselves and Phillipe has told everyone who will listen about the Musketeer hero who saved his life,” Athos told him with a smile of pride, which faded as he watched the young man shake his head.

 

“Phillipe was the brave one,” he countered, pausing to have another sip of broth. “When I awoke in darkness, I…” he broke off, trying to recall exactly what happened. “I panicked and I think I passed out.” Taking a couple of steadying breaths, his voice was smaller when he resumed, “If Phillipe hadn’t been awake the next time I was, I’m not sure what would have happened.”

 

“Rubbish,” Porthos stated kindly, sitting on the end of the bed to grasp the boy’s leg.

 

Athos raised an eyebrow, “I have to agree with Porthos. You survived once, keeping not only yourself but me alive as well. I have no doubt you would have done the same again regardless of the circumstances.”

 

d’Artagnan seemed unconvinced but didn’t seem inclined to argue as a large yawn escaped him, his hand again drifting downwards to settle in his lap. “I think that’s quite enough for now,” Aramis declared, removing the half-full cup from his hands. Porthos and Athos took the hint and reversed their actions from before, removing the extra padding from behind the young man’s back so he could be laid down again. By the time they’d finished pulling his blankets up, d’Artagnan was already asleep.

 

Athos motioned with his head for them to move away from the bed so they could speak without disturbing its occupant. “I have information that effects our mission here.” Aramis raised an eyebrow and Porthos tilted his head in interest, both having forgotten the reason for their presence in the small town given all that had transpired. “The fire at the inn was no accident; it was set deliberately. Monsieur Brazeau had forgotten to tell us with everything else that’s been going on, but several masked man on horseback started the blaze.”

 

Aramis nodded, stroking his beard in thought, “Given that our messenger never arrived, it would make sense that the two events are connected.”

 

“That means that we need to get back to Paris and tell Treville so he can inform the King,” Porthos concluded.

 

Athos nodded in agreement with the two men, “I’ll ride out first thing tomorrow…”

 

Aramis cut him off before he could finish, “Athos, I don’t think that’s the best idea. What about the boy?” His gaze drifted to where d’Artagnan slept, fine lines of pain evident on his face even in sleep.

 

Clasping a hand on the older man’s shoulder, Porthos agreed, “Aramis is right and the lad’s not fit to travel. I’ll head out tomorrow to talk to Treville and you follow when you can.”

 

Athos turned to the medic with an inquiring look, “What if we took a cart?”

 

Aramis released a long exhale, again considering his patient and taking stock of his overall health, “He could stand the journey as long as we take breaks along the way, but the pace will be slow.”

 

Athos gave a short nod, “Porthos, you take a horse and make your way to Paris tomorrow at best possible speed. We’ll follow and get there when we can. That way Treville will have time to discuss plans with the King by the time we arrive.” Glancing from one man to the other, Athos saw their commitment to his plan reflected in their expressions.

 

“Then we’d best eat some of this food before it goes cold and get to bed. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day,” Porthos remarked with a grin, already looking forward to their journey home.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had ridden scarcely an hour, Athos alternating between scouting ahead and dropping back to ride next to the cart, when he whistled softly to Aramis to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's continuing to follow along with this story and to those who have been generous with their kudos and encouraging comments - always appreciated! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

It was a bad night for the four men and, although Aramis and Athos had done their best to split the load between the two of them, Porthos was still aware each time that the young man began to thrash from the violent intensity of his dreams. As such, he was up and moving with the first rays of dawn, knowing that further rest would likely elude him regardless, just as it had after each episode that d’Artagnan had endured, followed by several minutes of trying to calm him down, reminding him that he was safe, and dealing with the agony that ignited from his injuries each time he awoke. Athos was up as well and the two men nodded a weary greeting at each other as Porthos moved around the room quietly, completing his morning ablutions. When he was ready, Porthos motioned with his head toward Aramis who still slept in a mound of blankets on the floor. “Make sure he doesn’t overdo it,” he said, knowing well his friend’s tendency to put his own well-being at risk when caring for his injured brothers. “You too,” he added, noting the deep bruising that had appeared under the older man’s eyes, a feature, he was loathe to admit, they all shared now after several days of worrying after the injured man.

 

Athos nodded and rose to meet his friend as he prepared to leave, grasping his arm with one hand and clasping his upper arm with the other, “Stay safe and do not take any unnecessary risks. We will likely be a day or two behind you, depending on d’Artagnan’s ability to stand the journey.”

 

Porthos gave a quick dip of his head, casting a last fond glance at his two sleeping friends before slipping softly out the door. Athos knew he was being foolish, but the room immediately felt somehow emptier as his friend and his larger-than-life presence departed. Sighing, he returned to his seat next to the bed, rubbing at grit-filled eyes that burned with too little sleep. His gaze shifted to the boy who lay before him, still wheezing a bit from the smoke he’d inhaled and the ribs that prevented his chest from fully expanding so he could take a proper breath. As he became more aware, beginning his long recovery from his injuries, his dreams seemed to worsen, last night making it evident that simply ignoring what was happening would not be a permanent solution. Aramis had already shared his rising fears with Athos that if the boy’s sleep continued to be disturbed, his physical recovery would be hindered as well as his mental state. The revelation had scared Athos more deeply than he cared to admit, worrying that they might be separated once again to fulfill missions on behalf of the King while d’Artagnan was left behind to heal, forced to deal with things on his own, an approach which had clearly been unsuccessful in the past.

 

While his brothers had gathered around d’Artagnan previously to help him deal with the almost debilitating nightmares, the boy had still been unable to share much of their details; fortunately, the presence of his friends had apparently been sufficient to help him overcome and heal. Now that the dreams had reappeared, following another ordeal that was too similar to the last one he’d endured, Athos was doubtful that their words and touches of comfort would be enough, causing a pang of guilt at the thought that they might be insufficient for the task of helping their youngest cope. Athos realized that the guilt might be out of place, but knew in his heart that a different strategy would be needed; at the same time, he was completely at a loss about what their path forward should be. The only certainty that guided him was that he and his brothers would not falter in their unwavering support of the young man as he dealt with this latest round of demons.

 

As he scrubbed a hand through his dishevelled hair, he looked up surprised to find the focus of his thoughts awake and staring at him, eyes still glazed with pain and bloodshot from a night spent more awake than asleep.

 

“Hello,” Athos said softly with a smile. “I’m surprised to see you awake.”

 

d’Artagnan lowered his eyes for a moment before returning his mentor’s gaze, “Sorry, I know you didn’t get much sleep because of me.”

 

“Nonsense, I don’t usually sleep much anyway,” Athos countered gently. His face turning more serious, he asked, “How are you feeling today?”

 

“M’fine,” the Gascon replied, prompting Athos to raise a questioning eyebrow as the young man’s statement was punctuated by several soft coughs. Trying to change the topic, he let his eyes roam around the room for a moment, noticing Porthos’ absence. “Where’s Porthos?”

 

The question reminded Athos that the young man had been asleep during their conversation the previous evening, and the boy was still unaware of the information he’d shared regarding the fire. Deciding that it would be best to keep the young man calm for now, he gave a partial answer, “He’s on his way back to Paris to give Treville an update on our mission. Assuming you’re up to it, we’ll follow him later today.” d’Artagnan nodded immediately, as Athos knew he would, without even hearing the details of their journey. “You won’t be riding,” Athos cautioned him. “The Brazeaus have agreed to loan us their cart.”

 

The Gascon grimaced at the idea of being unable to ride, but knew that his condition made the cart a necessary evil. “Fine,” he acquiesced. “When do we leave?”

 

“I believe Aramis would like to have another look at your injuries first, probably get some food into you and then there’s a certain young man who would never forgive us if we left without saying goodbye,” Athos explained.

 

“Quite right,” Aramis agreed, startling d’Artagnan who hadn’t realized that the other man was now awake. “Also, another pain draught I think. Riding in the back of a cart on these rutted roads won’t be pleasant by any means.”

 

“Very well,” d’Artagnan agreed with a small smile, his friend’s caring warming him.

 

“Do you think you could manage something more than broth today?” Aramis asked as he joined Athos at the Gascon’s bed.

 

He thought a moment, before answering, “I believe so.”

 

Aramis smiled broadly at his answer and turned to Athos, “Why don’t you see what you can find while I have a look at the boy’s injuries?” As the older man left, Aramis dropped into his chair, leaning forward to place a hand on the young man’s forehead. Although he rolled his eyes, d’Artagnan allowed it. Removing his hand and standing once more, Aramis pulled back the blankets so he could look at the Gascon’s back. Reaching for the salve he’d made, he warmed a dollop in his hands before applying it to the heavy bruising that still painted most of the boy’s skin. “How are you feeling today?” he asked as he worked.

 

Doing his best to breathe steadily, d’Artagnan replied, “Better.”

 

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed noncommittally. “These bruises are beginning to heal but they’re still fairly tender, I think.” The Gascon nodded, his breath hitching for a moment as Aramis pressed on a particularly sore spot. “Let’s sit you up so I can look at your shoulder and ribs.” The medic gently guided him upright, shifting the rolled blankets behind him quickly and then helping him lean back. He pressed his fingers against each of the broken ribs in turn, confirming that none of the bones had shifted. “All good here,” he murmured. “I’m going to unwrap your shoulder next,” he informed the boy. Aramis took the young man’s right hand and placed it on his left wrist, “Use your hand to support your arm while I unstrap it.” He swiftly removed the linen holding the arm in place and took several moments to press at the shoulder blade, causing the Gascon to hiss in pain. “Sorry,” Aramis repeated. “Seems like every time I touch you it causes you pain.”

 

“Not your fault,” the young man replied, somewhat breathlessly.

 

Giving the boy a moment, Aramis stood and collected another length of linen, wrapping the broken ribs firmly to support them for the journey. “How does that feel??” he asked when he’d finished.

 

“Good, much better actually,” the young man gave a rueful grin.

 

Aramis smiled back, “That should make the trip back more comfortable.” He reached for the clean shirt that Athos had brought back with him the night prior; it had belonged to the Brazeau’s son and they could think of no better use for it than to clothe the back of the hero who’d saved their grandson. Waiting until he had the Gascon’s attention, he lifted the shirt in his hands, telegraphing his intentions. “We’ll do this slowly, alright?” Preparing the first sleeve, Aramis placed his hand on the boy’s left arm so he could thread his right into the shirt; next, Aramis guided the other sleeve carefully over the young man’s injured left arm, shifting it as little as possible. Last, he pulled the shirt over the Gascon’s head and allowed the bottom to drop over the man’s torso, moving the boy’s right hand back to support his left arm once more. Looking up, he found d’Artagnan’s eyes closed and sweat dotting his brow. “Would you like a minute?” he asked compassionately.

 

The Gascon gave a short nod, eyes still closed, concentrating on breathing through the pain. Aramis wet a cloth and poured a cup of water and brought both items back to the bed, setting the cup on the floor. Using the cloth, he wiped at the young man’s face, cooling him and removing the moisture that sat at his hairline. When d’Artagnan opened his eyes, Aramis motioned questioningly to his shoulder, the young man nodding his permission to continue. Carefully, Aramis replaced the bandages that held his arm in place before handing him the cup of water, happy when the boy exerted his customary stubbornness by refusing to allow his help in drinking, but wary still of the tremble in his hands. Taking the cup back when the Gascon had finished, Aramis offered another supportive smile, “I just need to have a look at your hip and put some salve on it; then you can rest until breakfast arrives.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face flushed red when realized that he was naked beneath the blanket, but Aramis dismissed his embarrassment, saying “No need for that, we’re family after all.” The Gascon smiled shyly and waited for Aramis to finish, grateful when the blanket was pulled up to his waist. Athos re-entered the room as the medic was cleaning up and d’Artagnan wondered for a moment if he’d timed it that way on purpose to offer him some semblance of privacy, but Athos’ face gave nothing away.

 

“All done?” he asked as brought a tray in, settling it on the dressing table. Aramis was wiping his hands on a towel and he nodded at the man’s question. “Good. d’Artagnan, broth for you as well as some bread,” he stated as he brought the two items over, allowing the Gascon to take the cup but holding onto the bread until he was ready for it. “Our host will inform us when Brazeaus arrive.”

 

d’Artagnan looked up at Athos’ comment, realizing he had no idea where they’d been staying since the inn had burned down. “Whose house is this?” he asked.

 

Aramis sat at the end of the bed, holding his own breakfast as he answered, “Monsieur Carre - Alain, he prefers. A kind gentleman who sought us out that night when we realized…” he trailed off. “When we thought…” he stopped again.

 

“When you didn’t reappear after running inside to rescue the boy,” Athos finished sombrely.

 

The looks on the men’s faces told the story of how difficult the past days had been and d’Artagnan realized that he’d run into the blaze without thought for anyone other than the boy he’d been trying to save. It had never occurred to him how the others might react or what would have happened if he’d perished in the flames. Placing all the sincerity he could muster into his words, he caught each man’s eyes in turn as he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t stop to think how this might affect you; I can’t even imagine what it must have been like.”

 

Athos tilted his head in acknowledgement of the apology while Aramis squeezed the boy’s ankle as he admitted, “It is something we have no wish to repeat, any time soon.”

 

The older man leaned forward, guiding the Gascon’s hand that still held the cup of broth back to his mouth, and d’Artagnan gave a wry grin as he took another sip. “How long do you think it will take to get back to Paris?” he asked, painfully aware that it was his infirmities that had caused the men to have to split up and that their own trip back would be slowed in deference to his limitations.

 

Athos gave a noncommittal shrug, “Three days, maybe four; it’s of little consequence. Porthos will get the necessary information back to Treville.”

 

The comment made d’Artagnan ponder exactly what was so important that they would risk sending a man back alone; while the road back to Paris was relatively safe, bandits were always cropping up and the Musketeers preferred to travel in pairs whenever possible. He frowned as the realization hit him and he stared intently at his mentor, “Exactly what information does Porthos carry?”

 

Sharing a glance with the older man, Aramis tried to distract their young friend, “You should finish your breakfast. I’m sure Phillipe will be here soon and you’d like to meet him dressed in something more than a shirt and blanket wrapped round your waist.”

 

d’Artagnan gave the medic an irritated look, having forgotten that he was still only half-clothed, but he was not dissuaded in his desire for information. “Athos, what was so important that Porthos had to travel back alone?”

 

Neither man had wanted the young man to know the full story of the events that had transpired - not yet anyway – but the Gascon seemed single-minded in his determination to get the full story. Clearing his throat, Athos replied, “The fire at the inn was deliberately set and it’s likely that it was done to prevent the Duke’s messenger from delivering his message to us. Treville will need to know so he can inform the King.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded absently, shocked at the realization that someone had gone to such lengths to prevent the meeting, even at the potential cost of a child’s life. The two friends saw the change come over the young man as he fell silent and gazed past both of them, not really focusing on anything, the cup of broth forgotten and cooling in his hand. Guessing what had caused the reaction, Athos put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “No one could have expected this and it’s unlikely the men hired knew there was a child inside.”

 

The Gascon gave a distracted nod, but remained quiet, causing his mentor to sigh with frustration. He couldn’t order the young man to simply shake off the events of the past few days, but he’d hoped that the boy would be stronger before having to share the news that the fire hadn’t been accidental. Athos looked over at Aramis gratefully when the medic stood from the bed and moved to gather d’Artagnan’s freshly-laundered clothes. “Come, I’ll help you dress now so you can at least greet your guests while wearing your breeches.” The tone was teasing, but Aramis’ smile slipped as d’Artagnan merely nodded and handed the cold broth to Athos.

 

The process of getting dressed made d’Artagnan appreciate exactly how many muscles in one’s upper body were connected and necessary for movement of one’s lower body, and by the time his breeches were around his waist and laced, the young man was leaning against Athos’ chest, panting heavily. Athos simply sat behind the boy, supporting him, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. While he recovered, Aramis slipped the boy’s boots onto his feet, knowing that if he were more aware the act would draw another look of embarrassment from the boy, something he wanted to spare him if possible. When he’d finished, he re-wet the cloth and handed it to Athos who wiped it across the young man’s face.

 

d’Artagnan gave a small nod as he lifted his head and opened his eyes, “Thank you,” he said on a shaky exhale.

 

“No thanks is needed,” Athos murmured in his ear, handing the cloth back to Aramis. “Do you want to lay back in bed or would you prefer to try the chair?”

 

Horrified at the thought of greeting the Brazeau’s from bed, d’Artagnan opted for the chair. “Are you certain?” Aramis asked, dropping to one knee in front of the boy. “Your hip will protest the movement and it will be difficult to sit comfortably with your broken ribs.”

 

The Gascon shook his head, “I don’t want Phillipe to see me in bed; it might scare him.”

 

Aramis dropped his head for a moment, a fond smile on his face; of course d’Artagnan would worry over the child and put Phillipe’s need ahead of his own. “Alright, but you’ll have something for the pain and if things get too bad, you’ll go back to bed.” The young man gave a relieved nod, although they all knew it was unlikely that the Gascon would voice his discomfort in front of his guests.

 

It was decided that they would return the chairs they’d borrowed to their host’s front room, which would give them more space to visit comfortably in the larger space and allow d’Artagnan to lean his uninjured arm on the dining table since it would be hard for him to hold himself upright with his broken ribs. The trip from the guestroom was completed in a haze of agony for the Gascon, supported on both sides by his friends as his right leg refused to move properly due to the deep bruising on his hip. Each shift of weight from his good leg to bad sent a red-hot spike searing through the joint, and it was a badly trembling and sweaty young man who was finally deposited on the chair. Athos kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he slumped forward, dropping his head forward onto his arm as he struggled to come to grips with the pain. Aramis was in front of him again, head low as he clasped the boy’s neck and murmured softly. A minute head nod had the medic moving again to collect the pain draught he’d prepared and assisting the boy to drink since his hand shook too much to complete the task on his own.

 

When he’d consumed the drink, d’Artagnan returned his head to his arm, closing his eyes as he waited for his discomfort to ease. Athos kept his hand on the boy’s back, worry clouding his eyes at the minute tremors that racked the young man’s frame.

 

“Aramis,” he said softly, “perhaps it would be prudent to wait another day?”

 

d’Artagnan lifted his head, determination shining in his eyes “No, I can do this.”

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis soothed, “perhaps Athos is correct and we should stay a while longer. There’s no rush to get back, after all.”

 

The Gascon glared at him, wishing he could turn enough to see Athos as well. “Isn’t there?” he asked. When neither man answered, he went on, “If something is going on with the Duke, there’s a good chance Treville will need you. It makes sense that we follow Porthos as quickly as possible.” Aramis seemed to be waffling and d’Artagnan pressed his advantage, knowing that Athos wouldn’t argue with the medic’s assessment of his health. “Aramis, the pain draught is already starting to work and once I’m settled in the cart, I won’t have to get up and move again. It was just the walking that hurt so much.”

 

Holding the boy’s gaze for several seconds, Aramis nodded and d’Artagnan knew he’d won. “The lad’s right, Athos. The worst part will be getting him settled in the cart, and there’s not much that will change with an extra day or two.”

 

Aramis could see that Athos wasn’t convinced, but he thinned his lips and said nothing, giving a short nod to let the medic know that they’d proceed as planned. They could hear voices signalling the arrival of the Brazeaus so Aramis turned back to the young man, “It sounds like your guests are here. While you visit, I’ll get the back of the cart ready for you.” Athos gave his friend a grateful look and Aramis clapped his shoulder lightly as he left, speaking briefly with the Brazeaus as he exited.

 

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Madame Brazeau cried, walking directly to him and placing her hands on either side of his face before kissing him on both cheeks. “Thank you for returning our grandson to us,” she said, tearily, before removing her hands to wipe at her eyes with a handkerchief. d’Artagnan looked up at her and mumbled a reply, overwhelmed at her actions.

 

Monsieur Brazeau came over, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders, and moving her back a step to give the young man some room. “We are grateful beyond words for saving our grandson.” The man motioned to the boy who’d been hanging back a few steps, clearly having been told that he’d need to be careful and not jump on the injured Musketeer. Now that he’d been summoned, he wasted no time rushing forward, sliding to a halt before d’Artagnan with a tentative smile on his face. Taking in the man’s pale face and hunched countenance, his smile began to slip until d’Artagnan’s eyes lit up at the sight of the child and he reached out with his good arm to embrace the boy.

 

That was all the permission Phillipe needed, and he flung his arms around the Gascon’s neck, burying his face into the man’s shoulder. Athos could see the pain that flashed across his friend’s face but he gave a quick head shake to let the older man know it was alright. They stayed that way for almost a minute before the child lifted his head up to gaze at his hero, “Thank you for saving me. I thought for sure that I would be seeing mama and papa until you came for me.”

 

d’Artagnan choked with emotion at the boy’s words and pulled him closer, blinking to keep the tears in his eyes from falling. When he felt able to speak, he murmured in the boy’s ear, “You’re very welcome, Phillipe, and thank you for being so brave while we waited for my friends to find us.” Loosening his hold on the boy, d’Artagnan took a proper look at the child, his gaze shifting to his grandparents as he asked, “Are you alright? Did you get hurt at all?” He received three head shakes in return, causing him to release the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

 

“Monsieur Athos has told us that you’ll be leaving for Paris today,” Brazeau stated. “We’ve packed some provisions and other things to make your journey easier. It’s not much,” he shrugged, “but it’s the least we can do for the gift of our grandson’s life.”

 

d’Artagnan was already shaking his head, but Athos interjected smoothly on his behalf, understanding the Brazeau’s need to do something for their saviour. “Thank you, I’m certain anything you’ve provided will be more than sufficient and we appreciate your thoughtfulness.” At Athos’ words, d’Artagnan smiled and added his nod of thanks. Aramis rejoined the group then, moving to stand next to Athos. “The cart’s ready to go. Shall we?” he asked, uncertain about the state of affairs between d’Artagnan and the Brazeaus.

 

Athos looked to the Gascon who gave a short nod, moving to give the boy a last hug. “I will never forget your bravery, Phillipe. Make sure you keep up with your riding and the next time we’re in the area, I’ll stop by so you can show me how you’re progressing.”

 

The boy didn’t want to let go, but at his grandmother’s hand on his shoulder he gave a nod and pulled away from the Musketeer. Monsieur Brazeau led his family outside, understanding that the trip from inside to the cart would be a difficult one for the young man and he wouldn’t want everyone’s eyes on him as he accomplished the task. Aramis stepped forward to catch the Gascon’s eyes, explaining, “I’ve pulled the cart up as close as possible to the door. The back is lined with hay and covered with blankets and pillows which some have donated to make the trip more comfortable for you. There’s a crate that you’ll need to step up onto and then the next step will be into the back of the cart. I’ll help you lay down and get settled. Are you ready?”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip and took as deep a breath as his ribs allowed, readying himself for the pain that accompanied movement, and reached his good arm up so Aramis could gently ease him to his feet. Once there, they took a moment to let him adjust and then the three men shuffled outside together, again supporting their friend as best they could. When they reached the cart, Aramis climbed in first and then helped d’Artagnan up, guiding him to sit and then partly recline against the nest of pillows they’d placed at the head of the cart. The Gascon’s eyes were closed as Aramis knelt beside him, a hand on his chest, coaxing him to slow his shuddering breaths. Athos retreated inside and returned bearing a cup of water which Aramis took from him gratefully, placing it at the boy’s lips when his breathing had slowed. “Here, it’s just water,” he said as he tipped the cup at the young man’s mouth, allowing him to take several swallows before he pulled back to indicate that he’d had enough.

 

“Better?” Aramis asked, concern clear in his eyes. d’Artagnan was no fool, despite what some may have accused him of, and he knew that the days ahead would be challenging; he also understood that his friends would never ask him to make the trip without minimizing all the risks involved so they could get him home safely.

 

Swallowing, he let out a shaky exhale as he nodded, “I’m good.”

 

As Aramis descended from the back of the cart, Madame Brazeau approached from where they’d been waiting patiently to one side. “This is for you,” she said, holding up a colorful bundle of cloth. “To keep you warm during your trip.”

 

With Aramis’ help, the bundle was unfolded to reveal an exquisitely made quilt, its bright patchwork of colors reflecting all the shades of spring. “I can’t accept,” d’Artagnan stammered, looking to Aramis’ amused face for help, “It’s too much.”

 

“Nonsense,” the old woman countered. “You will take it with my blessing.”

 

The finality of her tone left no room for argument so d’Artagnan gave the woman a brief smile, “Thank you. I’ll treasure it always.” The answer seemed satisfactory as the woman’s face lit up with a broad smile.

 

Aramis climbed into the front of the cart, while Athos removed several coins from his purse for their host. “Thank you for your generosity and kindness,” he said as he clasped Carre’s hand, before handing the coins over.

 

“This is too much, Monsieur,” Alain protested, but Athos closed the man’s fingers over the money he’d placed there.

 

“You did not have to open your home to us but you did and we are grateful. This is the least we can do to show our appreciation,” Athos stated, making it clear that the matter was closed.

 

Alain nodded his head in thanks and Athos released him, walking over to his horse and mounting. Tipping his hat to the people that had come to bid them farewell, he nudged his heels into the horse’s flanks as Aramis waved a hand to everyone before urging the horses attached to the cart into motion. As the cart moved, d’Artagnan’s breathing hitched, earning a concerned glance from Aramis as he peered back over one shoulder, but the Gascon merely waved a hand to let them know he was alright. Turning back around, the medic did his best to keep the horses’ gaits steady, knowing that the young man behind him would endure more than was necessary before thinking of telling them that he was in pain.

 

They had ridden scarcely an hour, Athos alternating between scouting ahead and dropping back to ride next to the cart, when he whistled softly to Aramis to stop. Aramis pulled evenly on the reins, easing the horses to a stop, while Athos dismounted and tied his horse to the back of the cart with a length of rope. As Aramis watched, Athos climbed into the back of the cart where d’Artagnan half-lay, face covered in a sheen of sweat, his eyes glazed with pain. Both men had hoped the young man would be able to sleep for a good portion of the journey, but it turned out that despite the padding they’d placed into the cart, the ride was still too rocky, uncomfortably jarring the Gascon’s injuries with every uneven patch of road they crossed.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos placed a hand on the boy’s cheek to gain his attention, “I’m going to lift you forward a bit so you can lean on me.”

 

“Wha?” the young man mumbled, uncertain what his mentor was planning and why.

 

With a hand on each shoulder, Athos eased his protégé forward being mindful of his broken ribs, then held him in place with a hand at the boy’s back, rearranging the pillows there so he could sit comfortably. Next, he slid in behind the d’Artagnan, guiding him back to lay against his chest and wrapping his arms loosely around him to steady him in place.

 

“Athos, you don’t have to…” d’Artagnan began to protest.

 

“I know I don’t have to but you’re in pain and I have it within my power to change that. Just lay back and try to sleep if you can. We’ll wake you when we stop,” Athos informed him.

 

Reluctantly d’Artagnan settled back against his mentor’s chest, revelling in the feel of the man’s heartbeat at his back and the warm, strong arms that he’d at some point begun to equate with safety. Aramis smiled in amusement as he turned his attention back to the road, nudging the horses into motion once again, satisfied that both men were getting exactly what they needed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re not separating,” he stated with conviction, preventing Athos from suggesting it. The older man paused a moment before giving a small tilt of his head in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and lovely comments on the last chapter - I was glad to hear that folks were enjoying the brotherly moments between the boys. Hope you enjoy this next one!

He could not explain it if asked, but there had been a feeling of disquiet plaguing him since he’d left, and no matter how often he’d tried to quell the feeling, it stubbornly remained, urging him onward. As a result, Porthos had pushed himself and his steed to complete the return trip in two days, arriving late on the evening of the second. The men on duty at the garrison gates gave him an odd look at having returned alone, but he didn’t spare the time to explain, weary and dust-covered after his trip and anxious to report to Treville. Dismounting quickly, he handed off his horse’s reins to the stable boy before taking the stairs to Treville’s office two at a time. Glancing briefly at the window to confirm that a light still burned from within, he pushed the door open without knocking, giving a nod of greeting to his Captain when the man looked up from his desk.

 

“Porthos, welcome back,” Treville greeted him, wary of the man’s unusual entrance.

 

“Thank you, Captain. I have news,” Porthos explained. “The inn where we were supposed to meet was attacked and burned to the ground. We think it was to keep the Duke’s messenger from delivering his message to us.”

 

Treville’s brow furrowed, “Where are the others?”

 

“d’Artagnan was hurt,” Porthos paused for breath, “there was a boy trapped inside and he ran in to rescue him. We didn’t find him until the next day.” Treville could see the dismay on Porthos’ face as he recalled the events and remained silent, giving the man time to continue when he was ready. “They’re following behind in a cart. The boy, he can’t ride yet.”

 

The Captain nodded, thoughtful as he processed what he’d been told. “You’re certain that the messenger never arrived?”

 

Porthos offered a half-hearted shrug, “If ‘e did, ‘e never made contact with us.”

 

Treville stood slowly, not wanting to alarm the road-weary man in front of him, “Porthos, is there any chance that the bandits might believe that the messenger reached you regardless, and that you, not the inn, was the intended target?”

 

“Son of a,” Porthos turned and scrubbed a hand angrily across his head, pulling the scarf from his curls, twisting the fabric in his hands as the full implication of Treville’s question struck him. The feeling that he’d been experiencing redoubled and he knew that the Captain was undoubtedly correct. “I have to go back. They’re not expecting an attack.”

 

Treville nodded, “Eat and sleep first, Porthos, you’re no good to anyone dead on your feet. Take Fouquet and Sebastian with you. I’ll inform the King in the morning.” The Musketeer nodded, preparing to leave, “Porthos, bring them back safely.”

 

The large man gave another nod, exiting swiftly, already planning what he’d need to pack and the extra things needed to replace the items his friends had lost in the fire. Stopping at the kitchen, he took a bowl of stew and some bread, heading back to his own room to eat, intending to prepare himself that night in order to get an early start in the morning. As he looked around the empty space, he felt another pang of fear at being separated from his unsuspecting brothers before ruthlessly pushing the feeling aside in order to focus instead on re-joining them as quickly as possible. 

* * *

Although they hadn’t travelled far and the sun was hours away from setting, they decided to stop that afternoon when they happened across an inn which had a room available for the night. Athos and Aramis were both aware of the fact that their journey back to Paris would take several more days, but the Gascon’s grey complexion and laboured breathing were enough to convince them of the necessity to spend the night someplace where the boy could sleep in a real bed, rather than the cold ground underneath the stars. The process of moving the young man from the cart to their room was another exercise in frustration and patience, as the boy’s injuries prevented them from carrying him between them, while the agony of slowly shuffling inside made both men cringe in sympathy for their young friend. By the time they had d’Artagnan settled in bed, it would have been difficult to decide who among them was the most relieved.

 

The young man had drifted off to sleep as soon as the pain had eased sufficiently, leaving Aramis to watch over him while Athos saw to the care of their horses and made arrangements for food. The Gascon’s respite was sadly brief as he awoke panting and juddering from what would be the first of that night’s bad dreams, only calming once Athos presented himself to the boy, proving that he was in fact alive and well. When he’d sufficiently recovered, the three had eaten and dosed the boy with Aramis’ pain draught, at which point d’Artagnan’s head had begun to nod as his healing body screamed loudly for sleep. Each time the Gascon fought the desire to drift off, forcing his head upright for a few minutes until it began to bob once again. Having finally had enough, Aramis pulled Athos from his chair and pushed him onto the bed next to the Gascon. Efficiently, he removed the older man’s boots, his doublet and weapons having been shed earlier. When he was done Aramis pointed to the young man who looked at them both with bleary eyes and Athos sighed as he nodded, positioning himself next to the boy, leaning against the wall with a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Sleep,” he said, softly. “We will be here.”

 

His mentor’s presence seemed to be enough to overwhelm his defences and d’Artagnan finally allowed himself to succumb to the tantalizing darkness which had been trying to pull him from consciousness for the past hour. Athos had slept beside him that night, soothing him each time the nightmares returned and reminding him that they were both safe and well. The following day and night were a repeat of their first and it was on the third day of their journey, sometime past mid-day when Aramis’ keen eyes spotted riders approaching.

 

“Athos,” he called over his shoulder, the older man once more steadying d’Artagnan’s body against the swaying of the cart. “Riders approaching.” He pulled on the horses’ reins as he spoke, intending to wait and see who was approaching.

 

Athos brows shot up at his friend’s words; not that it was unusual to encounter others along this road, but most were travelling on foot or with wagons, carrying crops or other items between their homes and the closest marketplace. Men on horseback were unusual.

 

“Porthos?” Aramis questioned as he kept his eyes straight ahead, still waiting for the group to get close enough to discern their features.

 

“Possibly,” Athos allowed, enough time having passed for the man to return, assuming he’d pushed hard on his return trip, had reported and turned around again to re-join his friends. The question in Athos’ mind was _why?_ What would prompt Porthos to return so swiftly to his brothers’ sides, unless he knew something they didn’t; something of which they were unaware and that threatened their safety.

 

Raising himself slightly so he could properly see over the sides of the cart, Athos spotted a copse of trees to one side, “Aramis,” he spoke softly but firmly, “pull off the road and into those trees.”

 

It was a credit to Aramis’ training and the faith he had in Athos that he moved to obey immediately, voicing his question only once they were in motion and moving towards the trees, “What is it, Athos?”

 

Athos shook his head, even though he knew his friend would not see the action, “I don’t know yet.” He fell silent and Aramis resigned himself to waiting until the riders got closer before getting any answers to his questions. Behind him he could hear the hisses and gasps of pain as the cart’s jerky path toward the trees jarred d’Artagnan’s injuries. Aramis gritted his teeth against the knowledge that his actions were causing the young man pain and resolved to check on him as soon as they were out of sight of the road. Moments later the task had been accomplished, Aramis having found a large enough gap for them to enter the wood, providing what he hoped would be sufficient coverage for them to remain unnoticed by the riders as they passed.

 

Athos shifted from behind the boy, latching onto his weapons belt as he dropped nimbly from the back of the cart. Aramis moved to stand at his side, eyes still focused on a spot between the trees which allowed him a view of the road.

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan called softly. When the man turned, the Gascon reached a hand out to him, “My pistol.” The medic hesitated for a moment, but a glance at the serious expression on Athos’ face had him moving to pull the Gascon’s pistol from where it lay inside the cart and placing it into the man’s outstretched hand.

 

Another minute passed until they heard approaching hoof beats and the men waited silently for the men to come into their line of sight. When they finally did the Musketeers took in the sight of four men dressed in hats and dark doublets, their weapons reflecting in the sunlight, suggesting that these men were more than simple farmers or merchants. They stayed in hiding for another five minutes, wanting to be certain that the group had passed and they had not been discovered.

 

The two Musketeers exchanged a quick look and Aramis handed his weapons to Athos as he climbed into the back of the cart to check on the Gascon. The man had his pistol laying at his side, his hand still upon it and Aramis nodded in approval. “They’ve passed us by. How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine, Aramis,” the Gascon assured, feeling the tension that now radiated off the man and sensing the need to be back on the road toward Paris. “Any idea who they were?”

 

Aramis shook his head as he sat back on his haunches next to the boy. “We’ll need to get back on the road and it will be a bit…bumpy,” Aramis grimaced at his own words, knowing that _bumpy_ was an understatement.

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the comment, knowing full well how uncomfortable the trip back to the road would be. “It’s fine, Aramis.”

 

Athos stood at the side of the wagon, listening to his friends, now catching d’Artagnan’s attention. “Will you be alright if I ride for a while?” The Gascon nodded immediately, understanding that Athos would not ask unless necessary. At his nod, Athos switched his gaze to Aramis which spurred the medic into action, taking back his weapons and clambering into the driver’s seat. Meanwhile, Athos untied his horse from the cart, tightening the girth and mounting in one smooth motion. With a last glance at Aramis, he nudged the horse into motion, leading the way out of the trees and back onto the road. They stopped momentarily as they turned onto the road, both Musketeers looking to their left before moving to the right, confirming that the riders they’d seen were no longer in sight.

 

As they travelled d’Artagnan’s discomfort grew and he welcomed it as a way of staying grounded and awake, unwilling to sleep while Athos continuously alternated between scouting ahead and dropping back to watch their rear. The few times that Athos was close enough to the cart provided the Gascon with a view of the older man’s tense shoulders and jaw, confirming that he was expecting trouble. Aramis was just as alert, recognizing the tenuous position of the cart if they were attacked, and his eyes swivelled constantly, seeking what lay ahead and to each side. Their journey progressed for several hours in this fashion, Aramis beginning to believe that they’d been concerned for no reason. “Athos,” he called to their leader as the man was moving from the rear to once more scout ahead, “it’s been several hours.”

 

Athos looked at him, uncertainty playing on his features as his mind warred with his instincts, something about the situation still unsettling him. Unable to pinpoint what caused his concern, he began to nod as Aramis’ eyes shifted from him to a point behind him. Athos twisted in his saddle, spying immediately what had claimed the other man’s attention; four riders were swiftly approaching, the beat of their horses already sounding as they cantered forward. The older man threw a curt order over his shoulder as he nudged his horse into motion, “Stay with d’Artagnan.” Aramis placed his pistol in his lap as he turned in the seat to watch Athos ride away. A quick downward glance confirmed that d’Artagnan’s hand once again lay on his own weapon and Aramis smiled briefly at the action.

 

Athos had stopped several hundred feet away from their position, intending to speak with the men away from the cart. As Aramis watched, two men pulled away from the group, pulling their pistols to fire as they drew closer to the lone Musketeer. The medic cursed softly as he saw the elder man sway then return fire with his own pistol, felling one of the men from his horse. The other continued to approach, pulling his sword, and Athos dropped his empty pistol in favour of drawing his own blade, knowing there was no time to reload.

 

That was all that Aramis saw as the other two rode closer and he wasted no time firing in their direction, hitting one of the men so that he dropped to the ground. The other rider fired at him and Aramis dropped quickly to hide behind the meagre protection of the seat, the ball passing harmlessly by. Drawing his sword, Aramis jumped from the cart and pulled hard at the man’s arm, unseating him in a clumsy tangle of limbs. Despite the man’s hard landing, he rolled swiftly to his feet and engaged the medic with his sword. d’Artagnan lay frustrated in the back of the cart, his reclined position placing his field of vision too low to see over the top of the cart’s sides, preventing him from seeing what was happening around him. Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he strained to hear any signs of distress from his friends, recognizing the tell-tale signs of swords clashing in battle.

 

The concern over his friends’ welfare had distracted him, and he would later curse his lack of attention for allowing the bandit to catch him unaware. The man that Aramis had initially shot had only been wounded and seemed desperate enough to complete his mission that he’d gathered his strength and climbed into the back of the cart. Before d’Artagnan’s pain-dulled mind could comprehend what was happening, the man had kicked the pistol from his half-raised hand, and was leaning over him, a hand at his throat. “Where is it?” the bandit asked, pushing the Gascon’s head roughly against the back wall of the cart.

 

d’Artagnan looked into the man’s wild eyes, his uninjured arm scrabbling at the bandit’s in an effort to remove the constricting hand from his neck. With the bandit above him he had little leverage and was considerably hampered by the lack of his left arm. “Wha’?” the Gascon gasped past a throat that seemed to be rapidly closing, his chest beginning to heave painfully in an effort to draw more air.

 

The bandit shook him again, his head thumping against the cart once more. “The letter, where is it?” d’Artagnan’s head was beginning to swim, his right arm dropping to his side as he focused all his attention on breathing. As his hand landed on the bottom of the cart, his fingers brushed against something metal, and it took several beats of his pounding heart to realize that it was his pistol. He reached out as much as he could, neck still pinned against the cart in the crushing grip that was slowly but surely collapsing his airway. A final desperate stretch had the pistol in his hand and he brought his arm upwards in a clumsy strike, managing to daze the man above him enough to release his hold and send him toppling to one side.

 

As soon as the bandit’s hand was gone, d’Artagnan gasped for air, struggling to obey his body’s desperate need to inhale while every expansion of his chest threatened to bring him to tears as his broken ribs were pushed excruciatingly past their limits. He watched fuzzily as Aramis climbed into the back of the cart, dispatching the bandit beside him with a well-placed strike of his sword, before his eyes drifted closed as his body was no longer able to hold onto consciousness.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis cried as he dropped to his knees next to the young man, concern flooding him as the boy’s eyes closed. Pulling a glove from his hand, he placed it on the boy’s throat, releasing a shaky exhale when he felt the comforting thrum of the young man’s pulse.

 

“How is he?” Athos said, causing the medic’s head to snap up sharply at the man’s arrival, realizing guiltily that his attention had wavered enough to not notice his friend’s approach.

 

He gave a nod. “Alive,” he said, pausing to swallow, “unconscious. One of them managed to get in here before I could dispatch the other one. I’m honestly not sure how d’Artagnan managed to fend him off,” Aramis dropped his head, a look of remorse on his face at the thought of not having been able to protect his injured friend.

 

“You did your best Aramis and the fact that the boy still breathes proves that you reached him in time,” Athos’ warm tones soothed and Aramis did his best not to wallow in self-doubt.

 

Pushing himself up slowly, Aramis remembered the sway of the other man’s body when the bandits had fired. His eyes narrowed as he stepped toward the man and looked at him appraisingly from the back of the cart. “You’re hurt,” he stated, spotting a bloom of red high on the outside of the man’s left shoulder.

 

Athos lifted his shoulder slightly as he peered at it, before looking back at the medic, “It’s nothing, just a graze.”

 

Aramis pursed his lips in obvious disbelief. “Then you won’t mind letting me have a look at it,” he declared, turning to look at the dead bandit behind him, “as soon as we’ve disposed of him, that is.”

 

Athos gave a nod and moved to the other side of the cart to help pull the man’s body over the side as Aramis lifted it up and over. The let the bandit fall over the edge, Athos moving to gather the reins of his horse as Aramis returned to the driver’s seat. Both men were aware of the need to stop and tend their wounds, but recognized the more immediate need to put some distance between themselves and the dead bodies they were leaving behind. An hour’s travel had them off the main road to Paris and at the entrance to an old barn. It was less than ideal for their injured friend, but was a safer alternative than an inn if the earlier attack was planned rather coincidental.

 

Athos dismounted first and pulled open the two wide doors of the barn so Aramis could pull the cart and horses inside. The older man followed with his horse, closing the doors behind him. Aramis was already reaching for his medical bag, confirming briefly that the Gascon’s chest still rose and fell before moving Athos to a well-lit corner of the building where the sun shone through a high window, pushing him to sit on the ground as he knelt beside him. “Doublet and shirt,” he ordered shortly, digging around in his bag for the necessary supplies. Athos was familiar with the man’s testiness when his friends were injured and complied without complaint, removing his doublet and pulling the shoulder of his sleeve down so the wound was bared.

 

“Hmm,” Aramis took an initial look, swiping at it with a wet cloth to remove the blood. “It requires needlework, but you’re right, it’s just a graze.” Athos tipped his head in agreement, knowing that the medic wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d placed the stitches and bandaged the shallow groove that the ball had cut along his upper arm. Aramis pulled out a bottle of wine and tipped some over the wound, Athos gritting his teeth at the fiery sensation. The needle was doused next, before Aramis placed four neat stiches, covering them with a clean, white bandage.

 

Leaning back on his heels, Aramis gave a satisfied sigh at having completed his ministrations. “I should check on d’Artagnan now,” he stated, pushing himself to his feet, only to waver alarmingly, needing to place a steadying hand on the wall.

 

Athos watched the man’s actions, his eyes immediately darting upwards, spotting the swath of red at the man’s side which had been previously hidden by his arm but was now revealed as he held onto the wall. Standing up, he placed a hand on the medic’s upper arm, waiting until the dizziness passed and Aramis opened his eyes. “Sorry,” the medic offered unrepentantly, a small grin gracing his features.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Athos stated with affection. Aramis merely shrugged, the grin still firmly in place. The older man kept his grip in place, guiding the medic to the cart where he helped him up, pushing him down to sit next to the Gascon. “Stay here,” he ordered, leaving the cart to secure the bag of medical supplies so he could tend to the medic’s wound.

 

When he’d returned Aramis had managed to remove his doublet and lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing a three-inch gash across his bottom rib. Looking back up at Athos, he grimaced in disgust, “Lucky strike.”

 

Athos gave a commiserating nod as he knelt to wipe away the blood that surrounded the wound, passing the bottle of wine to the medic for a quick drink before he poured a generous measure on the slash. Aramis gasped but kept silent as Athos stitched the wound and wrapped a bandage around his torso. When he’d finished Aramis nodded gratefully to his friend, “Thank you.” Needing a few moments to recover himself, he motioned to the Gascon who still hadn’t awoken. “How is d’Artagnan?”

 

Athos shifted carefully to the young man’s side, little free space remaining with the three of them filling up the back of the cart. He leaned forward and carefully scrutinized the boy’s neck, seeing the bruising that had emerged. “Looks like he may have been strangled,” Athos stated, the soft tone indicating to Aramis the fury the older man felt at the discovery.

 

“How’s his breathing,” Aramis asked, shifting to his side to get a better look at the boy beside him.

 

Athos observed the young man for several seconds, noting the wheezing sound that seemed to accompany each movement of his chest. “It seems even, if somewhat laboured.”

 

Aramis agreed, having noticed the same signs that Athos had. “We’ll need to keep an eye on his throat to make sure it doesn’t swell. Can you wet a cloth to place on his neck?”

 

Athos moved to do as he’d been asked, as Aramis raised a hand to the Gascon’s cheek to try and wake him. “d’Artagnan, wake up lad.”

 

Athos returned and placed the cool cloth loosely at the boy’s throat, causing him to toss his head weakly. “d’Artagnan, you need to open your eyes now,” Athos commanded.

 

The Gascon’s eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly as he attempted to focus on the man in front of him. “Athos,” he tried to say, his ravaged throat rebelling and pulling a series of hoarse coughs from him instead.

 

Aramis reached for the water skin that Athos had left beside him and handed it to the older man so he could tip it to the boy’s mouth. d’Artagnan managed a few sips and pulled away, taking a couple of breaths before he croaked, “What happened?”

 

“We were attacked by bandits,” Athos replied, scrutinizing his protégé for further signs of discomfort. “One of them managed to get into the cart before Aramis could deal with him. Do you remember what happened?”

 

The Gascon gave an abbreviated nod, grimacing as the movement hurt his throat and increased the throbbing of his head. “He was choking me.” Athos helped him take another drink, d’Artagnan swallowing carefully as the cool liquid soothed his throat.

 

Beside him, Aramis commented, “An interesting method of killing one’s opponent. I wonder why he didn’t just shoot you.”

 

The statement drew a look of disdain from Athos and Aramis had the good grace to flinch, but d’Artagnan latched onto the medic’s words before anything more could be said. “No, he’s right.” Pausing to swallow again, he explained, “He kept asking, _where is it?_ ”

 

“Where’s what?” Aramis questioned, confused.

 

“A letter,” d’Artagnan rasped.

 

Aramis saw the contemplative look on their leader’s face and knew he had an idea of what was happening, “Athos?”

 

The older man raised his eyes to meet Aramis’, a message passing silently between the two as d’Artagnan watched and waited for one of them to speak. Apparently Aramis had won the silent debate and Athos sighed as he explained, “I believe these bandits are connected to our reason for being in Louviers. What if the fire was set, not to prevent the messenger from making contact, but because they assumed we already had the Duke’s letter and were sent to stop us from returning with it to Paris?”

 

Aramis whistled lowly, processing the implication of the man’s words. “Since their last attempt failed, they’d be motivated to try again to either retrieve it or stop us from reaching Paris.”

 

“Or both,” d’Artagnan whispered, the men’s looks unsettled as they realized the truth of the boy’s words.

 

“We’ll have to leave the main road,” Athos declared, his strategist’s mind already planning how they might avoid future attacks.

 

“No,” Aramis stated vehemently, his eyes dropping to the Gascon before returning to Athos.

 

“Suggestions?” he asked, acquiescing for a moment under the intensity of Aramis’ words, and ignoring the look of confusion on the young man’s face as the two talked above him.

 

Aramis bit his lip as he racked his brain for alternatives, giving a short shake of his head when he could not provide any. “We’re not separating,” he stated with conviction, preventing Athos from suggesting it. The older man paused a moment before giving a small tilt of his head in agreement. “I’ll increase the strength of the draught and we’ll stay off the main roads,” Aramis stated, now in support of their only option, but determined to make the trip as comfortable as possible for the Gascon once they were on the poorly-maintained but less-used paths to Paris.

 

Finally understanding their intention, d’Artagnan voiced his disagreement, “I don’t want anything stronger for the pain.” Both men looked ready to protest but the Gascon didn’t let them, “If we’re under threat of attack, I want my wits about me. I can’t do that if I’m drugged and passed out.”

 

Neither man liked the idea of the young man being in pain, but they had to admit that the Gascon had a valid point, already having had to defend himself in the most recent attack, something that would have been impossible if he’d been asleep. “Very well, I won’t increase the strength,” Aramis agreed, “but you will continue to take a small amount to reduce the discomfort.”

 

Having agreed on their plan of action, Athos distributed some of the travel provisions packed for them by the Brazeaus and then settled in on d’Artagnan’s other side, the narrowness of the cart making it a tight fit, but offering the three men the comfort of remaining at each other’s side throughout the night.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t want to,” the Gascon breathed out. “Don’t want to dream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fairly long chapter today where our boys are reunited. Enjoy!

Porthos was up at dawn, forcing stiff and tired muscles into movement despite their protests at having been abused for so many days in a row without sufficient rest to recover. The night he’d spent at the garrison seemed both too short and too long, providing little actual rest as his mind conjured one scenario after another that had his friends hurt or worse; in the end, he couldn’t wait for morning to arrive so he could give up any pretense of trying to sleep.

 

Fouquet and Sebastian joined him as he was getting travel provisions from the kitchen, Treville having alerted both the previous night, saving them precious time in the morning. Porthos was grateful for the Captain’s forethought and nodded a greeting to both men as they secured their own provisions before meeting up in the stable to prepare their horses. Years of practice made short work of their preparations and they had exited the garrison gates before most of the rest of the Musketeers were even awake. From his vantage point above the courtyard, Treville watched the men leave, speaking a short prayer that his men – all of them – would return home safely.

* * *

The night was particularly uncomfortable with the lack of a fire to ward away the chill and the pain of their injuries. Athos’ shoulder was more of an irritation than anything else, reminded of his wound only when he used the arm at which point he would experience a stab of discomfort that was little more than a nuisance. Aramis’ side was somewhat more severe and their medic was clearly in pain and feeling weak from blood loss; as a result, he’d dozed uncomfortably throughout the night, shivering intermittently, his inability to get warm an extremely unpleasant side effect of his reduced blood volume. If Aramis was tired and cranky as a result of the poor night, d’Artagnan was exhausted and miserable. The pain draught he’d accepted was enough to keep him from gasping in pain, but did little more than take the edge off. He’d spent the majority of his waking hours working to manage his pain, drifting off only when extreme fatigue overcame him, only to startle away soon after from the debilitating dreams that still haunted him. With the rising sun, d’Artagnan hurt in a way he couldn’t remember ever experiencing, only containing his moans because to voice them would wreak havoc on his fragile throat.

 

Athos climbed out of the back of the cart after catching the Gascon’s eye, having indicated his intentions to take care of his morning needs. Beside the young man, Aramis still dozed and d’Artagnan did his best to cover him with Athos’ abandoned blanket to ease the trembling he felt. d’Artagnan knew that the day ahead of them would be a long and arduous one, but today seemed especially cruel and unfair given all they’d endured so far.

 

When Athos returned, his gaze drifted across both his comrades, his heart heavy at the fact that they would need to press on regardless of their condition today. Returning to d’Artagnan’s side, he spoke softly, “Are you hungry?”

 

Truthfully the Gascon might have been able to stomach something but his tender and swollen throat made their provisions of hard bread and cheese an impossible choice. Instead, he swallowed painfully and whispered, “Water.”

 

Athos reached for the water skin and helped him drink, frowning at the trembling in the boy’s uninjured arm. When he’d finished, d’Artagnan gave the older man a nod of thanks and Athos moved carefully to the other side of the cart to check on Aramis.

 

Placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, he spoke, “Aramis, are you awake?” The medic opened his eyes right away even though they were clouded from lack of sleep. Pushing a hand beneath him, he struggled to sit upright, Athos helping him with a hand on one arm.

 

“Morning already,” Aramis asked once he was sitting, his back leaning against the side of the cart, offering a much-diminished version of his normal smile.

 

Athos gave a short nod, eyeing the man with concern, “How are you feeling?”

 

Aramis understood what Athos was asking but they both knew what his answer would be; there was no time right now for them to coddle their wounds, nor did they have the luxury of extra men to do what needed to be done. “I’m fine, Athos. Help me up and I’ll go take care of my needs while you help the boy.”

 

Athos looked uncertain but knew there was little choice, so he stood and then guided Aramis gently to his feet, holding him for a few moments while the man’s head cleared. When the medic nodded, Athos helped him climb down from the back of the cart, watching him for several steps before he was assured that his friend was steady enough to walk on his own. Returning to the Gascon’s side, he extended a hand, “Shall we?” d’Artagnan took as deep a breath as his throat and ribs would allow and then took his mentor’s hand, relying largely on his strength to pull him vertical. The movement pushed a yelp of pain from him and he clamped his lips down on any further sounds as he placed his uninjured arm around the older man’s shoulders, allowing him to guide them both to the back of the cart. Athos slipped gracefully down to the ground, helping d’Artagnan sit and slide off the end of the cart, bracing him as his bruised hip protested his weight. Together they shuffled outside and around the side of the barn where the Gascon could lean a hand against the wall while he took care of his needs. When he’d finished, Athos returned to help him with the trip back.

 

By the time they’d re-entered the barn, Aramis was sitting on the back of the cart, a small cup in his hands that the Gascon knew was meant for him. Eyeing it with disgust, d’Artagnan pointedly asked, “Just half-strength, right?” Aramis winced at the sound of the Gascon’s voice, which sounded as though the young man had gargled glass, but as much as it pained Aramis to allow his friend to suffer, he’d conceded to the boy’s insistent request that he remain aware enough to fight if the need arose.

 

“Yes, as we agreed,” Aramis confirmed, pressing the cup into the boy’s hand, making he sure he drained it. Taking the empty cup back, the medic asked, “Have you eaten?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, already seeing Aramis preparing a tirade at the lack of food he’d ingested, both now and during the previous night. “Can’t,” he croaked, his injured throat making his words thready and coarse.

 

Aramis winced sympathetically, “We’ll get you something soft at the next town we pass through. In the meantime, keep drinking as much as you can.” The Gascon nodded, having already guessed that there would be little solid food in his future.

 

Athos and Aramis assisted their young friend back into the cart, placing his loaded pistol once again at his side. As they rose, Athos turned to the medic, “Will you be able to drive the horses today?”

 

Aramis’ face split into a charming smile, “Athos, it would take more than a little cut to the side to stop me.” Athos lifted a brow but acquiesced, despite the man’s continued shakiness and pale features that told of the true gravity of his wound.

 

“Very well,” Athos said as the two exited the back of the cart, the older man giving his friend a helping hand to climb into the driver’s seat, “I will start out riding, but if you need a rest, you’ll tell me.” Aramis nodded much too quickly, pulling a sigh of frustration from the older man at his friend’s stubborn nature. The first jerky motion of the horses as they began moving pulled mutual gasps of pain from the two men in the cart and Aramis grimly thought to himself that they made an exceptionally easy target that day.

 

The back road that Athos selected was a terribly rutted path that was barely wide enough for the cart’s wheels in places. Each jolt and shake drew a grimace from the medic; he could feel the pull of his stitches with every shuddering motion making him wonder how d’Artagnan must be suffering, since he’d uttered barely a word since they’d departed a couple hours earlier. Bracing his injured side with one hand, he twisted in his seat to get a glimpse of the Gascon, noting the pale features and closed eyes, within a face that was damp from sweat and furrowed with lines of pain. Knowing that his own endurance would soon be at an end, Aramis emitted a soft whistle, attracting the older man’s attention and causing him to wheel around on his horse to return to their side. Aramis said nothing, simply motioning to the back of the cart with his head. It took only a quick glance for Athos to offer a quick nod, taking the lead again but this time to guide them a few feet off the side of the road. Aramis slowed the horses, bringing them to a stop as Athos did the same and dismounted, moving swiftly back to climb into the cart.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos said softly, a hand on the boy’s leg, “we’re going to rest for a bit. Can you open your eyes for me?”

 

Drawing a shuddering breath, the Gascon released the hold on his lower lip and looked into the concerned face of his mentor. Athos brought the water skin to the young man’s mouth, helping him drink deeply. “Thanks,” the young man muttered, dragging his arm across his face to remove the sweat that beaded there and threatened to drip into his eyes.

 

Athos’ eyes shifted upwards to where Aramis still sat, now turned sideways in the seat so he could look at both his friends. Aramis read the silent plea in the other man’s eyes and began digging around in his bag for the cup and herbs he needed to mix the Gascon’s pain relief. Handing the cup to Athos, he watched the older man add water from the skin and then offer it to the young man. He took it hesitantly, until Aramis spoke, “It’s alright d’Artagnan. It’s no stronger than before and you’ll be able to stay awake. You’ll only wear yourself down further if you have to continually fight the pain.”

 

d’Artagnan drained the cup and handed it back, Athos taking it and exiting, hopeful that the boy might doze off for a bit while they were stopped. He moved to the front and climbed to sit next to Aramis, deciding to check on his other friend’s injury. Handing the cup to Aramis he reached a hand forward, only to have it stopped by the medic’s own. “Aramis,” Athos warned, “you yourself have taught me the necessity of keeping wounds clean and free of infection.”

 

Aramis sighed at having his own words used against him and dropped his hand from the other man’s, permitting him to push aside his doublet and shirt to access the bandages beneath. Athos eyed the spot of blood on the white linen before efficiently unwrapping it from the man’s torso, revealing the stitches he’d placed and the red, inflamed wound. “Have you anything to ward off infection?” he asked.

 

Aramis pushed the medical bag at his feet toward the other man and held his shirt away from the wound while Athos bent forward to retrieve the salve. He applied enough to cover the entire length of the wound and then secured it with a clean bandage. “Do you need something for the pain as well?” he asked when he’d finished.

 

“No, it’s fine, I can manage it,” Aramis declined.

 

Athos gaze again shifted to the young man in the cart, noting gratefully that he seemed to be asleep. “I believe there’s another road ahead that eventually meets up with the main road for Paris. We could be there in two hours and back at the garrison by nightfall.”

 

Aramis understood the unasked question in Athos’ statement, his concern for their young friend warring with the need to keep them safe from further attack. “I think that would be a good idea. He’s born the journey stoically, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been suffering. I’d be happy to get home tonight if we could manage it.” Athos looked relieved at Aramis’ agreement and he realized with a start that it was not just worry for the Gascon that had prompted the older man’s suggestion, but worry for him as well.

 

The decision made, Athos left Aramis’ side to return to his horse, the medic spurring the horses into motion as smoothly as possible in the hope that the Gascon would sleep for a while longer. Athos’ predication was correct and in two hours they had reached the turnoff onto the main road to Paris, and Aramis gratefully steered the horses onto it, revelling at the comparative smoothness of the better-maintained road.

 

“’Mis,” a voice startled him, and Aramis kept one hand on the reins as he turned in his seat to find d’Artagnan awake. “How far?”

 

“We’re back on the main road and should be in Paris by nightfall,” Aramis replied. “How are you feeling? Do you need us to stop?”

 

“No, I’m fine,” he said, wincing at the wrecked quality of his voice from the prior day’s attempted strangulation.

 

“Alright,” Aramis agreed, “let me know if that changes.”

 

With that he moved to turn forward again, pausing as he spied movement in his peripheral vision. “Athos,” he called to the other man who was currently many feet ahead of them. He saw the older man pull sharply at the reins, waiting for the cart to pull abreast. “Behind us,” Aramis stated, motioning over his shoulder to their rear.

 

Turning his horse, Athos faced in the direction Aramis had indicated, seeing the unmistakable image of riders moving swiftly toward them. He scanned the area around them, pushing down his frustration at the fact that they stood completely out in the open with no cover in sight; they would have no choice but to stand and fight.

* * *

Fouquet and Sebastian gave Porthos a wide berth, allowing the man to ride ahead of them as his mood deteriorated with every frustrating minute that separated him from his friends. They had ridden hard to cover as much ground as possible, but Porthos was unwilling to travel any further, instinctively sensing that his friends were closer than he realized, but stymied by the fact that they still hadn’t come across them on the road leading back to Paris. After several hours they’d split up for a time to cover some of the smaller roads that the men might have taken instead, but the main road continued to insistently pull the large man back and they found themselves once again moving away from the city to confirm that they hadn’t missed the three men and their cart while checking out one of the minor, secondary paths.

 

When Porthos spotted movement ahead he nearly cried with relief, confident that he had finally found his missing brothers and overwhelmed that they were still safe. The feelings were fleeting, however, when he realized there were more men present than what he’d expected and the sound of a pistol shot reached his ears. With a roar he kicked his heels into the flanks of his mount, spurring the horse into a gallop to close the gap between himself and the group ahead. Fouquet and Sebastian were quick to respond, following quickly at the other man’s back, pulling their pistols as they rode in preparation to engage the men ahead of them.

 

The scene they faced could only be described as chaos. A quick glance revealed the fact that the Musketeers had been attacked by six men, two of whom lay dead or unmoving and four who were slowly overpowering the injured men. Athos was somehow holding two men at bay, trading sword strikes with the bandits, but Porthos could see how his arm was beginning to weaken even as he pushed one of the men back again, preventing him from advancing on the cart. Aramis still held his position at the front of the cart, using the added height it give him an advantage as he crossed blades with another of the attackers on the ground. That left d’Artagnan who had somehow managed to prop himself upright and was leaning heavily in one corner of the cart, clumsily parrying thrusts from the fourth bandit with an arm that seemed almost too heavy to raise.

 

Porthos debated for an instant which man to engage, but knew without a doubt that the Gascon’s need was currently the greatest. Trusting that Fouquet and Sebastian would split off and help the others, he swung from his horse before it had even stopped and clambered swiftly into the cart, pulling the bandit away from d’Artagnan and striking him hard across the temple with his pistol, dropping the man like a stone. The Gascon’s reaction was immediate as his shaky legs gave out and he slid to the floor of the cart before Porthos could step over the unconscious bandit to catch him. “d’Artagnan,” he cried as he stepped over the bandit’s body, pushing him aside with a foot to clear enough space so he could kneel next to the young man. d’Artagnan was gasping for air, his chest heaving and tears slipping from his eyes as he forced his broken ribs beyond what was comfortable in an effort to pull breath past his ravaged throat. Porthos grasped him by the nape of the neck, concern rising at the difficulties he was seeing, then sparing a quick glance to confirm that the other Musketeers were faring well. Assured that everything was under control his attention shifted back to the boy in front of him, and he murmured words of comfort as he shifted the Gascon further upright, hoping to ease his breathing in the new position. As the young man’s inhales began to ease, Porthos felt the cart dip as new weight was added, and he saw that Aramis had climbed into the back while Athos stood at one side watching the young man struggle to breathe.

 

As Aramis knelt on the Gascon’s other side, Porthos explained, “He’s having a hard time catching his breath.”

 

Aramis nodded sadly, “He was almost strangled yesterday, causing his throat to swell. Athos, the water skin,” he ordered the older man. Athos collected the skin and handed it to the medic. “d’Artagnan, I know it feels like you can’t get enough air, but you must try to slow down and breathe as deeply as you’re able.” Placing a hand lightly on the boy’s chest, he continued to coach the boy as Porthos and Athos looked on, Fouquet and Sebastian remaining several feet away so the men could tend to their youngest brother.

 

Finally d’Artagnan lifted his head and opened his eyes, lifting a trembling arm to wipe his face. Porthos caught the arm midway and wiped the moisture away gently with his thumbs. Aramis lifted the water skin in his hands, asking silently if the Gascon wanted a drink. When he received a slight nod, he pressed the skin to the young man’s lips and helped him take a few small swallows.

 

“I’m good now,” d’Artagnan murmured, pulling a snort from Porthos.

 

“Lad, you may be a lot of things, but good ain’t one of ‘em.” Releasing his hold on the boy’s neck, he turned to his other two friends. “What happened? You look worse than when we parted ways three days ago.”

 

Aramis gave the man a small grin, “It seems that we get into all sorts of trouble when you’re not around to look out for us.” The comment had the desired effect as Porthos’ serious features softened at his friend’s teasing.  

 

“Apparently these men believe we made contact with the Duke’s messenger and they’ve tried twice now to acquire his letter from us,” Athos explained.

 

Porthos’ face fell at the revelation, “Treville was afraid that might be the case. I’m sorry, I should have known and stayed with you.”

 

Athos interrupted his guilty discourse, recognizing that none of them were at fault in the current situation. “Porthos, you returned for us as soon as you realized. We, ourselves, didn’t know anything was amiss until yesterday’s attack. If anyone is at fault for this, it is me for not having comprehended the situation sooner.”

 

Porthos huffed with a small grin tugging at his lips, “Alright, I get it, none of us could have known and no one’s to blame.”

 

“Well, except for whoever sent these bandits after us in the first place,” Aramis countered with a smile of his own.

 

Athos rolled his eyes, gladdened at the few moments of normalcy, “So, now that we’ve established that no one’s to blame, I recommend getting back on the road before any more men are despatched against us.”

 

“Exactly right,” Aramis agreed. “I just need to prepare a pain draught for our friend here, which you will take without complaint,” he finished with a stern look to the pale-faced Gascon. It was a testament to how badly the young man was feeling that he merely nodded and didn’t even try to protest.

 

While their medic mixed the pain draught, Porthos lifted the unconscious bandit and then climbed from the back of the cart, tying the man firmly to one of horses before moving to speak with the others. He clasped Athos’ arm warmly at being reunited, asking “Any of the others alive?”

 

Athos shook his head. “No, but I’m sure Treville will be interested in talking to that one,” he said, motioning to the man Porthos had just finished with. “Now that we have more men, I’d like Aramis to ride in the back with d’Artagnan,” Athos explained. “Porthos, can take over driving duties?”

 

Porthos nodded but raised a suspicious eyebrow, “Is Aramis alright?”

 

Athos gave a nod of assurance, “A man got under his guard yesterday and sliced his side. I’ve stitched it but he’s in more pain than he’ll admit.” Both friends knew that the best way to get him to rest would be under the guise of caring for their young Gascon.

 

When they’d sorted themselves, Porthos sat at the front of the cart while Aramis now braced a dozing d’Artagnan in the back, having intentionally and unrepentantly mixed a far stronger draught for the young man now that aid had arrived. Athos was back on his horse leading the way while Fouquet and Sebastian rode at their rear, the bandit’s horse between them, tied to the back of the cart. It was an understandably tired group of men and horses that passed through the garrison gates that night, and Fouquet and Sebastian moved immediately to take care of the animals and the captured bandit, while Athos and Porthos turned their attentions to the two wounded men.

 

Aramis had managed to doze off at some point, lulled to sleep by a combination of the Gascon’s warm body against him and the motion of the cart. Unfortunately d’Artagnan had been awake for the last hour or so after waking from another of his nightmares despite the heaviness in his limbs from the pain draught that still coursed through his veins. The result made for a pliable young man who was aware enough to want to move on his own, but not coordinated or strong enough to do more than present a greater challenge to his two brothers who were trying to assist him onto the ground. Aramis woke when the Gascon was shifted away from him and followed behind the other three slowly as they took the stairs up to the young man’s room. Once they’d ascended, Athos left the boy in his friends’ care and headed toward Treville’s office, understanding the need to report as soon as possible lest further attacks occur.

 

“Athos,” the Captain greeted him warmly, his keen eyes taking in the sight of his lieutenant and noting the man’s road-worn countenance.

 

“Captain,” Athos gave a short nod in return, straightening his shoulders in respect despite his fatigue. “We were set upon twice by bandits searching for the Duke’s letter. Thank you for sending Porthos back to search for us; he and the others were a great help in fending off the second attack.”

 

The Captain’s brow furrowed at the news of the attack, “Any injuries?”

 

“Aramis took a strike to the side which will need a few days to heal and d’Artagnan added an attempted strangulation to his list of woes. Fortunately, several days of soft foods should be sufficient to allow his throat to heal. His other injuries will keep him off duty for several weeks,” Athos reported succinctly.

 

“And yourself?” Treville queried, well-aware of Athos’ propensity to dismiss his own health.

 

“A graze across the shoulder; nothing more than a nuisance I assure you,” Athos demurred.  

 

Treville nodded, “Have someone look at it anyway.” He knew that no matter what Athos believed, the man would never disobey a direct order. “And what of this letter?”

 

“We have no knowledge of it. No one approached us during our stay at the inn nor afterwards when we departed. It must be a mistake on the part of whomever has orchestrated this. Fortunately, we captured one of the bandits who attacked us and Fouquet and Sebastian are dealing with him now,” Athos replied.

 

“Good, I’ll question him in the morning,” Treville raised a hand to stay Athos’ comment, “and you and Porthos will take the day to rest. Tell Aramis I don’t want to see him back for three days and d’Artagnan will stay off duty for as long as Aramis says.”

 

Athos gave a short nod of acknowledgement before leaving the Captain’s office, making his way to d’Artagnan’s rooms to check on his friends. It was unsurprising to find that his two friends had managed to strip the Gascon down to his braies, and Aramis was rubbing something into the boy’s back while he sat on his bed, supported by Porthos. Athos waited just inside the door to the room until they’d finished, and watched as they propped the young man on several pillows so that he sat mostly upright at the head of his bed.

 

“How is he?” Athos asked as he moved further into the room.

 

“Tired and sore,” the Gascon’s stomach grumbled as Aramis spoke, “and understandably hungry.”

 

Porthos rose at the sound, “I’ll see if Serge has anything that he can manage around that throat.”

 

The young man did indeed look miserable, with fine lines of pain on his face which did nothing to hide the deep bruising around his eyes that spoke of too many hours of wakefulness and not enough rest. “I’m fine and I can speak for myself,” d’Artagnan announced, his voice still rough.

 

Aramis grimaced and placed a placating hand on his leg, “We know you can but until your throat heals, perhaps a day or two of quiet wouldn’t be remiss.”

 

The Gascon rolled his eyes but stayed quiet as Athos addressed the medic once more, “His other injuries?”

 

“Healing as well as can be expected, although a meal and some proper sleep will do him a world of good,” Aramis replied.

 

They could see the young man’s wince at the medic’s words, well aware of the fact that sleep had been difficult, through no fault of his own, and being back at the garrison was unlikely to change that. “I’ll stay here tonight, in case he needs anything,” Athos stated, pinning the young man with a look that dared him to argue, before turning back to Aramis. “After you’ve eaten, you should change those bandages and get some rest. Treville’s excused you for the next three days.”

 

“Three days, lazy bugger,” Porthos said as he entered with a smile, a tray of food clutched in his hands. Placing it on the small table, he brought a cup of broth and some bread to d’Artagnan. “It’s not much but the bread should be soft enough to swallow if you take small bites and dip it in the broth.”

 

“It’s fine, Porthos, thank you,” d’Artagnan replied as the large man handed him the cup while Aramis took the bread from him, planning to help the boy eat since he still had only one usable arm.

 

Porthos winced at the young man’s voice and then watched hopefully as the Gascon took a drink followed by a small piece of bread, the action of swallowing still uncomfortable but not enough to stop him. Satisfied that the boy would be able to eat, Porthos turned back to Athos, “What about us?”

 

“We have tomorrow to ourselves; after that…” Athos shrugged, his meaning clear.

 

The men settled around the room, joining d’Artagnan in eating their dinner, and then Porthos gently pulled Aramis up by his arm. “Come on, it’s time to check that wound and then off to bed with ya.”

 

The two said good night to their friends and Athos pulled his chair closer to the Gascon’s bed, the young man’s eyes already growing heavy with his need for sleep. Quietly, Athos steadied him as he removed some of the pillows at his back, settling him back down into a more horizontal position so he could rest. Retaking his seat, he saw the young man watching him through tired eyes, struggling to stay awake, “You must get some sleep, d’Artagnan; you cannot heal without it.”

 

“Don’t want to,” the Gascon breathed out. “Don’t want to dream.”

 

Athos’ heart clenched at the honesty of his protégé’s words and he moved to kneel at the young man’s bedside, grasping his shoulder with a warm, calloused hand. “I cannot promise that you won’t dream tonight, but I can promise I will be here when you awake. I will not let you needlessly suffer and will do everything in my power to help you move past this.” d’Artagnan nodded sleepily at his words and his eyes finally stayed closed, his breathing evening out quickly as sleep overtook him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Each of us has found far more than a purpose here, d’Artagnan; we have found a family, and that is something far too precious to walk away from because of some misplaced pride. Let us help you,” Aramis said, the plea clear in his tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to hear from many of you about the last chapter and I appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts. This is the second to last chapter, with the ending going up tomorrow. Enjoy!

Athos had kept several candles lit, knowing from experience how disorienting it was for d’Artagnan to awake in full darkness. The nightmare announced its arrival through a serious of twitches and moans, the young man’s brow furrowing in distress and his breathing speeding up until it sounded quite laboured. Athos sat on the bed so he could be closer to the young man, placing one hand on the boy’s head and running his thumb over his forehead as though trying to remove the frown that sat there. His other hand was clasped around the boy’s uninjured shoulder and he gently rubbed at the muscles that had corded and tensed. “d’Artagnan, you are safe. I am here with you and there is no danger. You can rest easy.”

 

Athos kept up a stream of encouraging words in his attempt to soothe the young man through his nightmare. When a minute had passed and the boy’s distress only grew, he changed tactics to wake him instead. “d’Artagnan, wake up. I am here and it is safe to open your eyes.” The hand that massaged shook the Gascon gently instead, insistent in the need for the boy to awake. Infusing a harder tone into his voice, Athos spoke again, this time more order than request, hopeful that some part of d’Artagnan’s brain would respond to the command. “d’Artagnan, wake up, now!”

 

The Gascon’s eyes flew open, wildly searching for the source of the order he’d heard, breaths rasping past his damaged throat. He saw Athos but was unable to stem the panic that held him, mind still muddied by sleep and unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Instead of relaxing, his free hand clenched fruitlessly at the blanket that covered him, his chest seizing as he forced it to contract and expand faster than it should. When Athos realized the young man’s state, he moved quickly to pull the boy up and into his arms, holding him close and speaking endlessly into the boy’s ear as he tried to calm him, feeling the racing flutter of the young man’s heart under one hand. Another minute passed and Athos felt the first shift in the Gascon’s breathing, the stuttering inhales finally slowing and deepening. Unwilling to lose any of the ground they had gained, Athos kept coaxing the boy to calm, reminding him over and over that everyone was safe.

 

As d’Artagnan’s breathing eased, Athos felt him go boneless, slumping further forward and allowing the older man to hold all of his weight. His concern spiking, Athos pushed the young man away from him enough to look at his face, finding the Gascon still awake and utterly desolate. Recognizing that their current position would place extra pressure on the young man’s damaged ribs, Athos carefully shifted himself away from the boy’s front, moving behind him instead and pulling the Gascon to lay back against his chest. As he wrapped his arms around the boy, he noted the young man’s unresponsiveness, not having questioned or protested the older man’s actions once as he’d been manipulated into this new position.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos spoke softly into the young man’s ear, “tell me about your dream.”

 

The young man inhaled sharply at the request and Athos could see his free hand playing with the blanket once again. He moved his own hand down to cover the boy’s, surprised when d’Artagnan gripped it tightly in his own. He inhaled and then exhaled shakily, “You died.” The Gascon paused and took another breath, “You died and this time you burned in a fire.” He had to stop again to swallow painfully, tears now falling from his eyes. “You were trapped and I couldn’t get you out.” A ragged sob accompanied his last words as he tried to curl in on himself, but Athos held him tight, not allowing the position that would cause the boy pain and could force one of his damaged ribs into a lung. d’Artagnan struggled against him for a moment and then went limp, once more falling into the embrace of his mentor. Inhaling raggedly, he spoke, “Why is this happening, Athos? Why am I so broken?”

 

Athos’ breath hitched at the moroseness of the young man’s words, blinking back tears of his own at the pain that his younger brother was enduring. When he felt he could speak, Athos assured him, “You’re not broken, d’Artagnan. What you’ve experienced…” he trailed off, struck by the enormity of what the young man had undergone. “What you’ve experienced would challenge the strongest of men.”

 

“Then why?” the Gascon wailed, angry and frustrated at the ongoing dreams that afflicted him.

 

Athos was lost for words, not having any idea why the nightmares persisted, but confident that d’Artagnan would overcome them. “I don’t know,” he finally confessed in a small voice. “What I do know is that you’ve triumphed before and will do so again. It will just take time.”

 

“I don’t know if I can,” d’Artagnan admitted, head dropping back to lay on his mentor’s shoulder. “Sometimes what’s broken can never be fixed,” he mumbled.

 

Athos’ heart stuttered in fear at his protégé’s words and he infused his words with every ounce of conviction he felt. “If there’s one thing I know, it is that you are the most determined man I’ve ever met. _You_ can do anything you set your mind to, and you will prevail over this,” Athos declared.

 

d’Artagnan huffed noncommittally and released Athos’ hand, leaving the older man uncertain about the boy’s state of mind, but at least he hadn’t said anything more against himself, which he would gladly take as a win. Bracing the boy as he shifted, Athos reached to the side where Aramis had placed a small stool and upon which sat another of the young man’s pain draughts. “Drink,” he said, bringing it to the Gascon’s mouth, and was pleased when the boy took the cup from his hands and emptied it. Replacing it on the stool beside him, Athos again wrapped his arms around his protégé, “Now sleep.”

 

With d’Artagnan’s back against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, the two men slept through the remainder of the night, Athos’ dreams troubled by images of being unable to save the young man from the demons that haunted him. 

* * *

Morning found the two men stiff and sore from the hours d’Artagnan had spent using Athos’ chest as an especially warm and comforting pillow. While the older man’s closeness had helped to reduce the severity of his nightmares, he’d still woken twice more during the night and needed time after each episode to calm down sufficiently before sleep claimed him again. For Athos, each event had meant even more time spent awake as he racked his brain about ways in which he and the others could better help the young man move past his nights of troubled sleeps.

 

Aramis and Porthos had both come to d’Artagnan’s room, Porthos bearing breakfast and Aramis carrying his bag of medical supplies, intent on checking the status of his patient; neither man was surprised that when they quietly passed through the Gascon’s door, Athos was already awake.

 

Slipping into the room, Aramis padded over to the bed while Porthos began laying out the food they’d brought. “How was your night?” the medic asked, noting the older man’s position and the deepening hollows beneath both eyes.

 

“As expected,” Athos replied softly, taking care to not wake his young charge.

 

“How many times?” Porthos questioned as he came to stand at Aramis’ side.

 

“Three, but the first was especially concerning,” Athos paused, debating with himself how much of the young man’s words he should disclose. Deciding that he needed all the help he could get with the boy’s recovery, he explained, “He feels himself _broken_ and believes he lacks the fortitude to overcome this latest bout of nightmares.”

 

The anguish was evident in the man’s tone and both Aramis and Porthos nodded sombrely at the revelation of the young man’s feelings. “You did, of course, correct these misguided beliefs?” Aramis confirmed.

 

“And reminded him that not getting better ain’t an option, not so long as we’re around,” Porthos added.

 

“Yes, and if I hadn’t, he’s heard it from you now,” Athos stated, increasing the volume of his voice to normal.

 

Aramis raised an eyebrow while Porthos grinned as d’Artagnan sheepishly opened his eyes, “Sorry, wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. How did you know I was awake?”

 

“Your breathing and state of relaxation in sleep is far different than when awake,” Athos told him, a fond smile on his face. “Speaking of which, now that you’re up, perhaps you’d be so kind as to release me from my role of pillow?”

 

The Gascon’s face reddened as he realized that he was still laying in his mentor’s embrace and he struggled to sit forward so Athos could remove himself. Porthos rushed to his aid, stabilizing him as Athos gently pushed him upright and then removed himself. Aramis positioned the extra pillows at his back before Porthos laid the young man back against them. Sitting on the bed, Aramis made his intentions clear as he asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”

 

“I’m fine, Aramis, you don’t need to fuss so,” d’Artagnan huffed, wincing a moment later as the action pulled on his ribs.

 

“Yes, I can see that,” Aramis remarked, a hint of mirth in his eyes at the young man’s stubbornness. “And your pain?”

 

d’Artagnan considered for a moment before answering, “Bearable.” He could see the words of protest forming on Aramis’ lips and forestalled his argument, “I promise I won’t try to tough it out, but right now I don’t need another draught.”

 

Seeing the sincerity in the young man’s eyes, Aramis relented. “Some breakfast then,” he said and Porthos was already standing there with a suitably soft offering in deference to the young man’s still tender throat.

 

Aramis remained seated on the bed as Porthos brought food over for him as well, before placing the two chairs close to d’Artagnan’s bed so they could sit together while they ate.

 

“What’s the plan for today?” Porthos asked between bites.

 

The three friends could see the longing in their leader’s eyes and knew he wanted to join Treville in interrogating the bandit they’d captured, but Athos simply shrugged, “Aramis and d’Artagnan need to rest and we have the day to with as we wish.”

 

Not allowing the subject to drop so easily, Porthos pressed the man for more, “And what is it that we wish to do?”

 

“There have been rumblings about the poor security at the Chatelet and, as the King’s guards, I believe it would be prudent on our part to conduct a tour and see for ourselves,” Athos declared dryly.

 

Aramis smirked at the man’s reply, “And I’m guessing that this tour will take place this afternoon, once the Captain has returned to the garrison?”

 

Athos inclined his head in agreement, “That seems the most reasonable course of action; after all, there’s no need for all of us to be there at the same time.” Porthos snorted at Athos’ creative interpretation of their orders, but there was no doubt in any of their minds that they would have a turn at speaking with their prisoner.

 

d’Artagnan looked from one man to the next as they casually discussed how they would disobey their Captain’s orders, but was grateful that his friends would go to such lengths to find out who was behind the attacks they’d suffered in order to bring the man responsible to justice. “So what do we do while you’re out visiting the Chatelet?” he asked.

 

Aramis interjected before anyone else could, “You, my dear d’Artagnan, have a day of rest and good food ahead of you, as prescribed by me, your physician.” The Gascon rolled his eyes at the thought of an entire day spent in boredom, but the medic knew the young man well and he added, “If you do as you’re told, _without complaint_ , we’ll take some air down in the courtyard this afternoon.”

 

“Good idea,” Porthos clapped Aramis on the back, while d’Artagnan looked on, confused. “That way you can keep an eye on Treville and run interference for us.” Aramis merely offered one of his most charming smiles, looking incredibly pleased with himself at finding a way to be included in the other men’s plans.

 

After breakfast, Aramis insisted on examining the graze on Athos’ shoulder, feeling guilty at not having checked on it sooner; fortunately, it was healing well and required no further attention. Afterwards, Athos and Porthos left while Aramis stayed behind to help d’Artagnan with his morning ablutions. The time spent away from his bed was enough to re-awaken his injuries and after downing a weak pain draught, d’Artagnan managed an hour of undisturbed sleep. When Porthos returned to the Gascon’s room, he helped the young man down to the courtyard where they sat at their usual table until Athos returned and they enjoyed their mid-day meal. Afterwards, Athos gave Porthos a meaningful look and the two rose together, nodded their heads to their friends, and nonchalantly strolled out through the garrison gates.

 

“When do you think they’ll be back?” d’Artagnan asked, already anxious for the two to return.

 

Aramis shrugged indifferently, “Couple hours, most likely. Time enough for you to finish your meal and have a nap.”

 

d’Artagnan looked down ruefully at his half-empty plate, knowing that Aramis wanted him to finish, but recognizing that if he tried putting anything more in his upset belly, it would likely reappear. “Don’t think I can,” he admitted.

 

“Your throat?” Aramis asked, at once concerned.

 

“No, my throat’s getting better. Just nerves, I guess, at what they’ll find out,” the Gascon explained.

 

Aramis nodded, understanding well the anxiety that came with soldiering and how one’s appetite could be affected. “Very well,” he agreed, taking the plate away, “but you’ll make up for it at dinnertime.”

 

The Gascon offered a grateful smile and turned his face up to the sun, closing his eyes as he basked in the warmth it provided. As Aramis watched him, he was once more struck by how young d’Artagnan appeared, especially when all his masks were torn away and he was at his most vulnerable. “d’Artagnan, I understand you’re still having nightmares.” d’Artagnan’s features grew serious as he looked at the other man, the relaxed countenance from moments before dropping away instantly. For a moment, Aramis wondered if his friend would deny it until, several seconds later, he gave a short nod. “Are they the same as before,” Aramis pressed.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan said softly on an exhale, shaking his head morosely. “No, these make the previous ones seem like a blessing. These are much worse.” He dropped his head and closed his eyes as he struggled to push back the images that Aramis’ question had evoked.

 

“Perhaps it would help to talk about them?” Aramis offered.

 

The Gascon lifted his head and gave the medic a sad smile before shaking his head, “Whatever this is, talking will not settle things. But, thank you for offering.” The young man’s expression grew closed and Aramis let out a quiet sigh, recognizing that their conversation was over and he’d get no more out of the boy for now.

* * *

Aramis had managed to convince a hurting Gascon to return to his bed to rest after it became clear that the boy could no longer hold himself upright, let alone contain his murmured sounds of pain as his broken bones thrummed persistently with each beat of his heart. The process of getting upstairs had been slow and awkward, d’Artagnan insisting that he did not need any additional help beyond Aramis’ strong arms, and the medic himself struggling somewhat with the additional weight as his healing side protested. In the end, the Gascon ended up asleep in his bed with Aramis dozing next to him in a chair, his nurturing instincts preventing him from the leaving the boy alone to seek the comfort of his own bed.

 

Porthos found them there, still asleep, upon returning from the Chatelet, and eased himself into the remaining chair, content to wait until they awoke. Athos had gone to speak with the Captain; regardless of the fact that they’d disobeyed orders, Treville needed to be made aware of the information they’d obtained. Secretly, Porthos believed their actions wouldn’t be wholly unexpected and the Captain was likely to overlook the fact that they’d disobeyed orders in light of the news Athos brought. The bandit had been surprisingly forthcoming once Porthos had _persuaded_ him, and the memory of how the man nearly soiled himself with fright brought a brief grin to the large man’s lips.

 

“You seem particularly pleased with yourself,” Aramis commented quietly, rising carefully from his reclined position, bracing his side with one hand, before bringing his chair to sit next to his friend. “I trust you had a successful outing?”

 

Porthos’ grin merely broadened in reply. “Wait till Athos is back and the boy is awake. No use tellin’ it twice.” Aramis nodded in acceptance, resting a hand gently on his sore side. Porthos’ eyes narrowed at the action as he leaned forward to tug at the man’s shirt, exposing the bandage beneath. “You changed that yet today?”

 

Aramis had the grace to flinch at the question, especially given how adamant he was with the care of his friends’ wounds. Porthos rolled his eyes at the telling expression and moved to gather the necessary supplies from the medic’s bag, placing them on the table next to where they sat. Wordlessly Aramis lifted his shirt so the large man could gain access and sat patiently as Porthos removed the old bandage, washed and covered his stitches with salve and then wrapped his torso in clean linen. When Porthos had finished, he pinned his friend with a serious stare, “Can’t take care of us if you don’t take care of yourself, Aramis.”

 

“You’re right, of course,” Aramis agreed with an easy smile.

 

He was saved from anything further by Athos’ entrance, the man slipping quietly into the room and joining his friends. Not to be swayed in his single-mindedness, he gaze stayed firmly on d’Artagnan even as he voiced his question to Aramis, “How is he?”

 

“His physical wounds are healing, Athos. It will still be some weeks before he can resume his full duties, but within a week there will be little reason to keep him confined primarily to his room,” Aramis replied.

 

“And his other troubles?” Athos asked, now shifting his eyes to the medic.

 

Aramis fidgeted uncomfortably, having no idea how they could help the young man past his almost-debilitating nightmares other than to continue as they had been. “The mind is a fragile thing, Athos. You know better than most how difficult it can be to shake off one’s past demons. Hopefully with time and support, the boy will find his way.”

 

“But will it be soon enough,” the words fell from Athos’ lips before he could stop them, revealing far more than he was comfortable with about his true concerns for his protégé. d’Artagnan had already expressed his belief that he might not be up for the task of overcoming his fears, and the three men knew that Treville could only afford an injured man so much time to heal as well. If the Gascon was not mentally fit to perform his duties once he was physically able, the Captain might have little choice but to strip the boy of his commission.

 

“Surely it hasn’t come to that yet,” Porthos countered softly, just as unprepared as his brothers to allow the young man to be consumed by his nightmares.

 

“No, it has not,” Aramis stated decisively, “and we will not allow it to happen. d’Artagnan has dealt with much in his time in Paris and I’ve every confidence that he is up to this challenge as well.”

 

The medic was the most optimistic of their group and his words were spoken with such certainty that neither man could argue against them. Instead, they took solace in their friend’s unwavering belief that the difficulties that faced their youngest would be swept aside by the resolute steadiness offered by their brotherhood, something which had saved each of them in turn as they’d faced events from their own pasts.

 

A sound of distress brought the three friends’ attention back to their youngest, his head tossing weakly as he relived more of the terrifying events from his time spent trapped underground. The three men moved in unison, Athos sitting on the bed and placing a hand on the young man’s cheek to still it’s movement, Porthos taking a seat on the other side of the bed to grasp the young man’s arm, while Aramis soaked a cloth in cool water and handed it to Athos to wipe the young man’s brow in an effort to ease him back to awareness and remove him from the visions that plagued him. The damp cloth seemed to do the trick and Athos and Porthos maintained contact with the young man in an effort to ground him and remind him that he was safe and among friends, not in whatever hellish place his mind had conjured. The touch of his friends seemed to help and even as d’Artagnan caught his breath, his eyes swivelled between the compassionate looks of his friends, recognition shining brightly in them.

 

At the much improved reaction, Athos’ lips quirked with a smile, “There you are.” He’d meant the words to be encouraging and his face fell as the young man’s face reddened, his eyes dropping as his good hand picked at the bandage that bound his injured arm to his chest. “d’Artagnan,” Athos moved a hand to the young man’s chin, tipping it upwards, “There is no shame in needing help from your brothers and you should know that it is freely given.”

 

Aramis nodded from where he stood at Athos’ back, “It is a privilege to share a bond so strong that is tempered by the sharing of both successes and regrets, and which does not judge the experience of either; have no doubt that such a bond exists between all of us.”

 

d’Artagnan still look unconvinced and Porthos huffed, exasperated, “Do you believe Athos weak when he drinks to forget and needs us to carry ‘im home? Or think Aramis flawed because he loves so deeply that it overcomes any good judgement he may have been born with? And what of me and my past in the Court – am I any less worthy of your brotherhood because of the color of my skin?”

 

d’Artagnan looked truly horrified by his friend’s words and rushed to dispel any belief that he viewed any of them with anything other than the utmost love and respect, “No, I don’t think that of any of you. I’m blessed to be able to call you friends and would spend my life proving that I am worthy of your friendship.”

 

Porthos cuffed him gently as he grinned, “That’s the point, you’ve already proven it and more, and we feel the same about you.”

 

“Each of us has found far more than a purpose here, d’Artagnan; we have found a family, and that is something far too precious to walk away from because of some misplaced pride. Let us help you,” Aramis said, the plea clear in his tone.

 

“Besides,” Athos told him with warmth in his eyes, “we’re not friends, we’re brothers.”

 

Inhaling shakily, d’Artagnan looked at the determined faces of his brothers and offered a nod, not trusting his voice lest it betray the strong emotions that gripped him.

 

Feeling the need to dispel the sombre mood that had descended upon them as they’d dealt with the aftereffects of the Gascon’s bad dreams, Porthos squeezed the young man’s arm and grinned widely as he asked, “Who’s ready for dinner? I’m starving!”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan smiled once more at being surrounded by his friends, before closing his eyes, “Alright, but blow the candles out, will you. It’s far too bright in here to sleep.”

They had stayed to eat in d’Artagnan’s room, the young man not quite ready to face the others in the garrison courtyard and his friends content to remain close by after all they’d endured in the past week. As they’d enjoyed their meal, Athos and Porthos related the results of the afternoon’s outing to the Chatelet where they’d found out that the attacks they’d experienced, including the fire at the inn, had been ordered by the leader of a group of rebels from Normandy. The group had gotten wind of the Duke’s plans to solidify his relationship with the King, which had been reflected in the letter that had been dispatched, and they had hoped to prevent its arrival in a bid to cast doubt on the Duke’s loyalty. Their prisoner maintained, no matter how vehemently the two Musketeers denied it, that the messenger had made contact and they had the letter in their possession. Since the men had lost nearly everything in the fire, it took mere minutes to look through their things and their search yielded nothing. The Captain had resigned himself to the fact that the rebels were mistaken, and unless new information came to light, the missing messenger and his letter would remain an unsolved mystery.

 

When it became clear that the two injured men were flagging, Porthos exchanged a look with Athos and then stood and gently hauled Aramis to his feet.

 

“What?” Aramis startled, confused, having been fighting sleep for the last half hour.

 

“Come on, I’ll walk you back,” Porthos told him, a hand firmly around his friend’s arm to keep him steady and moving as the medic looked back over his shoulder to where d’Artagnan was propped up in bed.

 

“But, I thought we were staying here tonight.” Aramis told him.

 

Porthos gave another tug on his friend’s arm, moving him closer to the door, “Athos has everything under control, don’t you Athos?”

 

The older man gave a modest smile at his two friends’ antics, “I do. Get some sleep, Aramis, I have this.”

 

Aramis nodded and allowed himself to be led out of the Gascon’s room as Athos turned to d’Artagnan, “Time for you to get some sleep as well.” He helped the young man sit forward so he could remove some of the pillows from behind his back, and then lowered him down as he asked, “Do you want the draught that Aramis left?”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip as he considered the older man’s question; his shoulder and arm ached as injuries were wont to do at the end of a long day, but he was still afraid that the pain reliever would further dull his senses, making it more difficult to wake from his nightmares. As if sensing the boy’s trepidation, Athos leaned forward and caught his eye, “I’ll be here and promise to wake you when you start to dream, so there’s no sense being in pain.”

 

His mentor’s blue eyes shone with empathy and d’Artagnan nodded in acceptance of his advice. After he’d consumed the draught, Athos pulled the blanket up under his chin, pulling a grin from the young man. “Don’t have to tuck me in,” he murmured.

 

Athos offered a slight smile in return, pushing the boy’s bangs back from his face as his eyes closed, “Is that not what older brothers do?” He didn’t expect a response as d’Artagnan’s breathing had already settled into sleep, and Athos retook his seat beside the bed, ready to fulfill his promise and watch over him.

* * *

He would not be able to explain what, exactly, had woken him, whether it was an unexpected shift of air or the sound of a footstep where quiet should have reigned instead, but the first thing he registered was the darkness that surrounded him. It took several moments to realize the wrongness of that fact, having become accustomed to the light of several candles to push away the inky blanket that descended with each setting of the sun. As he blinked, willing his still muddled mind to make sense of his surroundings, he heard a swish of fabric, drawing his gaze to the end of his bed where his chest sat. By the faint light coming through the window, he sensed a shadow there that seemed wrong and he began to move, intending to get up and investigate what was going on. As he threw his blanket back, he heard a hissed voice from his right and he looked to the source of the sound automatically, “Maurice, he’s awake.”

 

With those words the shadow at the end of his bed grew into a man and, as d’Artagnan watched, the man reached a hand behind him, reappearing moments later with a dagger, the pale moonlight glinting dully off the blade. To his right a flurry of motion materialized as Athos took advantage of his captor’s distraction, reaching upwards to grip the hand that held a knife at his throat while pushing himself backwards to knock the man off balance. The two fell to the ground, lost to d’Artagnan’s view, and he awkwardly launched himself at the intruder who still stood at the end of his bed. Grasping at the hand that held the dagger with his uninjured arm, the Gascon grunted with pain as the force of his tackle jarred his fragile shoulder before bringing both of them to the floor in a tangle of limbs. d’Artagnan’s only advantage was that he was on top of the other man, using his weight to trap the man’s other arm between their bodies as they wrestled for dominance of the blade. On the other side of the room he could hear another battle taking place between Athos and the second man, and he sent a quick prayer that his mentor would emerge the victor sooner rather than later so he might come to his aid as his strength flagged against the constancy of his intruder’s strength.

 

The man he battled had apparently figured out that his left side was vulnerable and was now using the arm that lay trapped between their bodies to exert pressure against his damaged ribs. d’Artagnan grunted with each jerk of the man’s arm, sweat now beading at his hairline as he held onto the man’s other hand through sheer willpower alone, using his feet on either side of the man’s legs to stabilize himself lest he be unseated from his precarious position. A cry rang out behind him and the Gascon’s attention was momentarily drawn to the sound, fear for his friend clutching at his racing heart. The second of inattention was a costly mistake and d’Artagnan felt himself being rolled and an instant later he was looking into up into his attacker’s face as the man grinned mirthlessly down at him. The blade inched closer now that the intruder had reversed their roles, gaining the more advantageous position, and the Gascon knew instinctively that in moments he would be dead. Closing his eyes as he gritted his teeth and held on with every fibre of his being, he missed Athos striding over to effortlessly pull a blade across the man’s throat, releasing a swath of warm blood that pulsed with the final beats of the man’s heart. Wasting no time, Athos pushed the man off of d’Artagnan, disgusted that the boy’s face now wore the signs of the intruder’s death.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos dropped to his knees beside his protégé, wiping at the boy’s face with his sleeve in his attempts to remove the vile blood that was splattered there. “d’Artagnan, open your eyes. It’s over now, you’re safe.” The Gascon slowly pried open his eyelids, able to make out the features of his best friend hovering above him, panic clearly etched in every feature of his face. “Are you alright?” Athos asked, a hand squeezing his uninjured shoulder. d’Artagnan gave a nod that was quickly aborted as the fire in his shoulder was reignited with the motion. Catching the grimace, Athos asked, “Are you hurt?”

 

The Gascon licked his lips, flinching at the coppery taste he found there and Athos had to look away at the reminder of how close the boy had come to dying himself. “Light?” the young man wheezed out and Athos considered for a moment the benefit of illuminating the grisly space versus removing them from the room. After a moment’s thought he decided on the latter option and reached for the young man’s arm to help him sit up. “Let’s get you up,” he said as he pulled d’Artagnan to his feet, ducking under his good arm as soon as he had the Gascon vertical. With a hand at the boy’s waist, he guided him out through the door and into the hallway that seemed so much brighter than the space they’d just left. A few Musketeers were coming out of their rooms and Athos realized that their battle, while short, had been loud enough to wake those closest to the boy’s room. Catching the eye of the closest man, he ordered, “Get Aramis and Porthos.” Looking at the next man over, he added, “Wake the Captain and have water and bandages brought to the guest room.”

 

Slowly, they made their way down the walkway to the guest quarters, Athos supporting the young man whose body was beginning to tremble with the effects of the adrenaline that had been released while he fought for his life. He brought the boy over to the bed that rested in one corner, sitting down with him before out easing out from under his shoulder. Before he could stand, a knock on the door heralded Sebastian’s arrival, carrying a bucket of water and a handful of clean cloths and bandages. Setting the items down on the table, he motioned with his head at the Gascon who sat unmoving where Athos had left him. “Do you need help with him?” Sebastian asked.

 

Athos detested the idea of anyone but him and his two closest brothers caring for d’Artagnan, but grudgingly recognized the need for an extra pair of hands to get the young man out of his blood-covered shirt and settled comfortably. He gave a curt nod and Sebastian moved to stand next to the older man, awaiting his instructions. “Can you unstrap his arm while I hold him steady?” Athos queried, placing a hand on the boy’s back as he swayed, eyes still unfocused and staring blankly. Sebastian expertly unwound the bandaging while Athos took over the responsibility of holding the arm’s weight as it was released. Next, the two men gently slid the injured arm out of its sleeve, drawing a hiss of pain from the young man, but no further reaction as they removed the blood-stained shirt.

 

Sebastian wordlessly took the shirt and tossed it outside, confident that no amount of washing could salvage it. When he returned it was with a wet cloth in his hands, and he carefully wiped the blood away from the young man’s skin as Athos maintained a litany of encouraging words and held the boy upright. The door flew open, startling all three and revealing two wide-eyed men. It only took a heartbeat for Aramis and Porthos to take in the tableau before them before they were striding across the room to surround their youngest, Sebastian dropping the cloth on the table and moving discreetly away. As he watched, Aramis sat next to the Gascon speaking softly as he started his examination, needing to know that the young man was well just as badly as his other two brothers. With a smile on his face, Sebastian slipped out of the room, knowing that the young man was in good hands and he was no longer needed.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you hurt?” Aramis asked softly, noting the fresh redness and swelling around the boy’s shoulder. His fingers pressing on the young man’s shoulder blade drew a hiss of pain and Aramis’ eyes flicked back to the Gascon’s, relieved that the sensation seemed to have brought the boy back to awareness.

 

“Aramis?” he questioned, confusion evident on his face.

 

“Yes,” the medic smiled at him, “I need to know if you’re hurt. Your shoulder seems worse than before.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded, “I think I hurt it when I jumped on that man.”

 

Porthos and Aramis exchanged confused looks and Athos gave them both a glare that promised pain if they pursued their questions before tending to the Gascon. “Alright,” Aramis allowed, feeling a little as though he was dealing with a skittish colt, “is there anything else that hurts?”

 

“No,” the young man shook his head, “my ribs are sore but don’t feel any different than before.” Taking a deep breath before exhaling slowly, he said, “I’m fine, Aramis, just tired.”

 

“You’ll forgive me if I confirm that for myself,” Aramis stated, already moving to unwrap the linen that supported the boy’s ribs.

 

d’Artagnan huffed softly but didn’t protest, and as Aramis pressed on each rib in turn, Athos shifted his gaze to Porthos, “I asked one of the men to wake Treville but perhaps you could bring him here to hear our report.” Porthos nodded and left to do as he’d been asked.

 

“You’re correct, d’Artagnan, your ribs are no worse than before. I’ll just bind them again and then we can get you into a clean shirt…” Aramis paused as he spotted Athos’ quick head shake, “we can get you settled before the Captain arrives.”

 

Between the two of them, they had d’Artagnan’s ribs and shoulder strapped and the young man laying comfortably against a stack of pillows before Treville and Porthos arrived. To his credit, the Captain walked directly to the bed to address his youngest Musketeer, “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The Gascon gave a shy smile as he replied, “I’m fine, sir, thank you.”

 

Treville raised a questioning eyebrow, shifting his gaze to Aramis who nodded. Comfortable that the medic was satisfied with the Gascon’s condition, he continued, “What happened?”

 

“We awoke in darkness and were attacked by two men in d’Artagnan’s quarters,” Athos replied. “I killed the first man, while d’Artagnan fought with the second, and then I came to his aid.”

 

“Dead?” Treville asked, receiving a sombre nod from his lieutenant in return. Sighing, he queried, “Do you think this is related to the other attacks?”

 

“It’s difficult to say, but perhaps a search of the men’s bodies would reveal some answers. They lie where they fell,” Athos told him, the Captain hearing the unspoken request that the bodies be removed before d’Artagnan could view the scene.

 

Giving a nod in acknowledgement, he said, “I’ll go see what we can find out. Do we need to post guards?”

 

Aramis and Porthos looked up sharply at the question. “You think they would try again, in a garrison full of the King’s Musketeers?” Aramis asked, disbelievingly.

 

“Didn’t seem to put ‘em off much the first time, did it?” Porthos countered.

 

“I think we’ll be fine tonight. I’d hazard a guess that none of us will be moving too far from this room,” Athos interjected.

 

“Very well, I’ll let you know what I find out. In the meantime, try and get some rest,” Treville ordered before he left.

 

Porthos looked after the man for a moment before reaching his own decision. “I’m gonna go look over those bodies,” he said, turning to leave. “I’ll be back to let you know what we find.”

 

Aramis and Athos watched their friend go, gladdened that one of their group would oversee the examination and removal of the two bandits from their friend’s room. Turning his attention back to his patient, the medic’s eyes narrowed at the site of their tired and obviously hurting brother. “Perhaps you should try to get some rest,” he suggested, already moving to remove some of the pillows from behind the Gascon’s back.

 

“No,” the words were quiet but the tone was steely, leaving no doubt that d’Artagnan had no intention of following Aramis’ recommendation. “I want to stay awake and hear what Porthos finds.”

 

The two older Musketeers exchanged looks, neither happy with the Gascon’s words, while the man in question looked down at the blanket covering his lap. “d’Artagnan, it may take quite some time before Porthos returns. Get some sleep now and we’ll wake you when he returns,” Athos negotiated.

 

The young man’s eyes met those of his mentor’s and Athos had to work hard at maintaining a neutral face at the determination and anger he saw burning there. “Athos, these men have attacked us several times and I…” he trailed off for a moment, swallowing down the terror that the memory evoked, “Phillipe nearly died through their actions. I cannot rest until this business has been concluded once and for all.”

 

"Then at least have something for the pain,” Aramis coaxed, already preparing for the Gascon’s argument. “I can make it half the strength; just enough to make you comfortable but not enough to put you to sleep.”

 

d’Artagnan seemed conflicted as he considered the medic’s suggestion until Athos squeezed his shoulder gently, offering him a small nod when he met the older man’s gaze. “Alright,” he agreed.

 

When the pain draught had been administered, Aramis stated his intention to join Porthos so the task could be completed faster. Athos gave him a grateful nod as he left before turning back to d’Artagnan who sat quietly, staring vacantly into space. “Are you alright, d’Artagnan?” The boy sat still and gave no indication of having heard so Athos reached forward and clasped the young man’s wrist. At the small start the boy gave, Athos tried again, “I asked if you are alright.”

 

d’Artagnan offered a small, rueful grin, “Sorry, I’m fine.”

 

Athos raised an eyebrow but kept his tone even, “Would you care to share what consumes your thoughts?”

 

The Gascon sat still again, dropping his eyes to his mentor’s hand where it encircled his wrist, a warm connection that grounded him and promised safety and brotherhood in equal measure. The silence stretched until Athos was certain his protégé wouldn’t answer, but then the young man raised his face and began to speak. “I thought I would die tonight.” Athos flinched inadvertently and swallowed thickly, only his iron will preventing him from speaking as he waited for the boy to continue. “That’s been happening a lot lately. First with the cave-in and then the fire at the inn. Each time I’ve found myself in the position of having little control over my fate. It’s a feeling that is,” he paused, searching for the right word, “ _disturbing_ , to say the least.”

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos began, but he was interrupted.

 

“No, Athos. Each time I thought I was alone and afraid, and I relived those fears every night in my dreams.” The older man’s heart was breaking as he listened to the confessions his protégé was sharing. “But I was wrong.” Athos’ gaze sharpened as the Gascon’s words took on a different tone. “I wasn’t alone. Each time, you and Aramis and Porthos came for me, and you saved me. Not once did you let me founder, even when I was convinced that I needed to deal with things on my own.” d’Artagnan took a slow, cleansing breath as he continued, “Athos, my brothers saved me; even when I thought I was broken, you helped put the shards of my soul back together again. You proved that once more tonight and I know that no matter what lies in our future, I will never be alone as long as I’m fortunate enough to call you and the others _brother_.”

 

Athos took a shaky breath, seeing the pall lift from his young friend’s shoulders, gratified at the faith d’Artagnan had placed in them but terrified at the prospect of letting the boy down. As he considered how to respond, he heard soft footfalls behind him and turned quickly to confirm their safety. Behind him, Porthos and Aramis were crossing the room, their faces warm with smiles and Athos realized they must have heard some of what d’Artagnan had shared. He returned his attention to the Gascon, now concerned that the boy would be upset that he’d been overheard, but the young man was smiling at the two men’s approach. “You knew they were there,” Athos voiced as realization dawned.

 

The Gascon gave a shy nod but only grinned more widely than before. “My words were meant for all three of my brothers.”

 

Athos nodded, astonished at the wisdom demonstrated by his young protégé as his words showed a maturity far beyond his actual years. Aramis and Porthos brought chairs with them from around the table and moved to sit by the young man’s bed, creating a semi-circle around their youngest.

 

Porthos cleared his throat, not wanting to interrupt but eager to share what they’d learned. At Athos’ slightly inclined head, he proceeded, “The two that attacked you didn’t have much of anything on them but we finally found the letter from the Duke.” At d’Artagnan’s wide eyes, Porthos grinned, “You remember that quilt Madame Brazeau gave ya? One of the bandits had started pulling it apart and if he’d had more time he would have found it. The letter was there, in one of the untouched squares. Someone put it into the quilt and then sent it back with you.”

 

“But, why?” d’Artagnan stammered, confusion evident on his face.

 

“The Captain received word just now - the name of the Duke’s messenger was Alain,” Aramis explained, the pieces beginning to fall into place. “He must have known that we’d figure things out when we learned that piece of information.”

 

At the still puzzled look on the Gascon’s face, Athos clarified, “He was the owner of the house where we stayed after the fire.”

 

Porthos nodded, “Treville figures Carre knew about the rebels so he was being cautious. The fire actually tipped his hand and forced him to act, but he had to do it in a way that no one would find out.”

 

“That’s…remarkable,” d’Artagnan breathed out, stunned. “So, what now?”

 

“I would imagine that the letter is enroute to the King and that the Duke will be able to deal with these bandits as soon as his position is solidified by its receipt,” Athos stated, receiving nods from both Aramis and Porthos.

 

“That means it’s finally over,” d’Artagnan murmured. The three Musketeers traded looks, agreeing with the young man’s statement. With the realization that they were safe, the Gascon felt a new sense of calm and he couldn’t help but let himself sag back further into the soft pillows behind him.

 

Aramis caught how d’Artagnan seemed to go limp and he leaned forward immediately to check on his patient, “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The young man offered a lazy grin before yawning widely, “Just tired. Think I’ll get some sleep now.”

 

Athos nodded and the three began settling themselves around the room, d’Artagnan’s brow furrowing at their actions. “You don’t need to stay,” he mumbled, already fighting sleep.

 

“I don’t believe there’s anywhere else we’d rather be tonight,” Athos informed him, receiving confirming nods from the other two.

 

d’Artagnan smiled once more at being surrounded by his friends, before closing his eyes, “Alright, but blow the candles out, will you. It’s far too bright in here to sleep.” And with those words, he let his brothers know he was far from broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has followed along with this story and for the words of encouragement along the way. As always, I'm sad to see this story end and hope to be back in January with another. Like many of you, I'm anxiously awaiting series 2 but can't promise I'll be canon-compliant as I'm not sure when they'll start showing episodes in Canada. In the meantime, I'd like to wish everyone a happy and healthy holiday season and all the best in 2015!


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